


The Man Who Had None of the Luck

by gemnoire



Series: The Man Who... [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnoire/pseuds/gemnoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all the secrets they'd stolen and dreams they'd invaded, it was inevitably someone would catch up to them. Of course the only thing worse than an enemy wanting revenge, is an enemy wanting information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London: 12th September, 6.45am

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay attention to the warnings, although mostly non-explicit or graphic, this still contains some triggery content.
> 
> Reposting on AO3 from my livejournal.

Eames - London: 12th September, 6.45am  
  
Eames hated staying in London, a position he made abundantly clear to anyone who'd listen. The reasons he gave were many and varied; the weather usually made the top of his list, with its damp drizzle and perpetual grey, of course that didn't exactly explain why he kept a flat in Manchester, a city with even more depressing meteorological habits. Too many people was another excuse, although that too was a lie given his fondness for the vastly over-crowded cities of Africa and Asia. Too many memories was another, less frequent answer, given only to those few he took into his confidence but that too was mostly a lie, because the city of his childhood was mostly filled with happy memories, a younger carefree existence, with only the last few years to sour them.  
  
Mostly however, he hated London because things like this had a tendency of happening when he stayed here.  
  
“Hello James, what a pleasant surprise to see you back in the country.” He suppressed a wince as the familiar clipped accent rang out behind him.  
  
He briefly considered pretending he hadn't heard the voice. Ignoring it and simply getting into the now open lift and taking it up to his hotel room where he could collapse on his nice, comfy hotel bed and sleep the sleep of the truly fucking knackered. However, the chances of the voice's owner giving up and going away to leave him to his well-deserved rest was approximately nil.  
  
So, with a final longing glance at the swiftly closing lift, he turned to face the familiar looking figure seated on a frightfully garish yellow sofa which someone had thought, in a fit of madness, would make the perfect accessory to the lobby of an otherwise entirely unremarkable mid-market hotel. “Why, Emms love, I'm surprised you'd took the time out of your busy schedule to check up on little ol' me. You really shouldn't have. Really.”  
  
The 'Emms' in question smirked at his annoyance and shifted on the sofa, the monstrosity clearly as uncomfortable to sit on as to look at. “You're looking well, business must be good,” she finally ventured after a few moments.  
  
Eames bristled at the unvoiced, but based on past experience definitely implied, reference to his unfortunate ability to loose most of his earnings on the vagaries of the flick of the wheel or the turn of the dice.  
  
"Really Emi-ly," he took the satisfaction to enunciate her name fully in that way guaranteed to frustrate her since childhood.“it's so lovely that you've arranged this little family reunion merely to comment on the state of my health, but I have a very important date with a very comfortable duvet and you are dreadfully in the way.”  
  
He turned to leave, hoping beyond all previous experience or likelihood that that could be that. That this little engineered encounter was nothing more than a fact finding exercise so she could report back to mother that no, James wasn't dead, and yes, he was eating properly. Her next words shattered that particular fantasy, as he knew they would.  
  
“We need to talk James,” she stared at him seriously for a moment and there was something in her eyes he was distinctly not used to seeing there, sympathy mixed with anxiety. And it's not that he'd never seen her anxious before, but never when dealing with him. She seemed to recover after a moment and gave him a lop-sided grin. “Come on, I know a lovely little café round the corner, and you look like you could do with some caffine.”  
  
He really wanted to protest, to beg off with some prior appointment, or exhaustion or something. But he was somehow intrigued, it had been a very long time since his sister had wanted to properly talk to him. Usually she was the one brushing aside his questions, following a clear cut, “don't ask, don't tell” perspective on their respective livelihoods.  
  
“Fine, you've won me over, you've stolen me viciously away from my well-deserved bed to fill me full of stimulants in what is no doubt one of those horrific little dives you so like to frequent on the principle that its 'quaint'."  
  
+++++  
  
She led them to the café on a roundabout route, down any number of side roads and back alleys. He recognised the behaviour, seen Arthur do it enough times, did it himself even more. Despite her casual and seemingly meandering choices in direction and the nonsensical small talk about the weather (dull), football (Pompey going into bankruptcy, again) and the state of transport in London (less said about the the better really), she was clearly trying, albeit crudely, to ensure they weren't being tailed.  
  
Eventually they made their way, as predicted, into a dingy little café with an  entirely deserted, crumbling walled yard at the back. Half a dozen table and chairs were desolately scattered around the cobbles. A gas heater offered some meagre warmth and an awning kept of the rain, although his seat was still damp when he sat down. He snorted in displeasure, “lovely places you bring me to, I've always admired your taste.”  
  
She ignored him, a trait that seemed to be becoming increasingly common among the people he cared about in his life, and ordered two coffees from the waiter. In a fit of impulse. Eames added on a proper fry-up breakfast before the poor man could make his escape. If he was going to be barred from going back to bed after a long night on what was an ultimately simple, if highly tedious job, the least she could do was buy him breakfast.  
  
“I wouldn't have asked like this if it wasn't important,” she started, an apology in her voice.  
  
“Yes, you would.”  
  
She sighed, “Fine, I would, but it's still important”  
  
“I guessed by your unique sense of route planning, You really don't want anyone finding out you were here do you?” He drawled, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at the look of surprise to cross her features. He always did like being able to get one over on her, sibling rivalry at its finest.  
  
“I really don't know what you're talking about.” Eames raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. She sighed, again, “You know things are always more complicated than that...” she stopped whatever else she was going to say as the waiter came back with their coffees and Eames' breakfast. He took a bite. It was as dire as the décor would have lead him to believe, but it was food and dammit, he was hungry.  
  
“That will clog your arteries you know” she commented, watching him eat.  
  
He was struck with a sense of deja vu as she did, recalling a very similar comment made by a certain point man, not two months ago, whilst they were staying in his flat up in Manchester. Eames had tried to convert him to the joys on British cuisine, a difficult task at the best of time, but no one could say he didn't enjoy a challenge. He'd said the exact same words, an amused smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Those small moments of domesticity, few and far between but every one of them cherished.  
  
“Do you dream any more? You know I was reading a paper recently looking at the long-term effects of REM sleep deprivation, you should be careful,” she put forward the facts in a conversational tone, stirring far too much sugar into her coffee as she did and effectively bringing his attention back to the present. He wondered if she'd done it on purpose. Probably.  
  
“I dream plenty, it's the nature of the job pet,” he couldn't help but keep the sarcasm out his voice. She raised her eyebrow at the endearment, clearly considering asking when, exactly, he'd decided to become a Geordie, before continuing on her previous line of conversation.  
  
“It's not natural dreaming though. You should be careful, I'd hate for you to have significant long-term memory deficits because of it” She was avoiding whatever she had come here to talk about, and they both knew it. But he was happy to wait this out at least until he had finished his eating the grey mass that was posing as scrambled eggs on his plate.  
  
He rolled his eyes but there was no real malice as he retorted, “Thank you, Dr. Eames.”  
  
They lapsed into an uneasy silence after that, as she stirred her coffee intently, clearly trying to figure out how to approach the conversation.  
  
Finally she blurted out, “Arthur Miller”  
  
“Tennesee Williams,” at her slightly puzzled look he continued “Sorry love, I thought we were going through 20th Century American playwrights. Not certain what it's got to do with me though.” Only he had a bad feeling he did.  
  
She studied him for a moment, then laughed. More of a guffaw really, a familiar sound indicating her amusement at the full extent of the fact that she knew more, much much more than he did. He'd always hated that laugh, and wondered fleetingly if Mother would ever forgive him if he shot her.  
  
“That is funny, you've been fucking the man for how many years now? And you don't even know his last name.” He bit down a flash of resentment that his sister seem to know more about the elusive point man than he did. He also suppressed the desire to ask her how, exactly, she knew they'd been in a relationship, suspecting it came from the same source as the name.  
  
It shouldn't have come as a surprise, their tendency to occasionally share a flat for weeks at a time would be a bit of a give-away and he wasn't so naïve to think that the few permanent residences they did keep weren't under some form of surveillance. Part and parcels of the job description really, but it didn't mean he had to like it.  
  
Reminding himself yet again that his continued desire to be able to eat his mother's glorious cooking whenever he felt like dropping by far outweighed any fleeting satisfaction he may have from murdering his sister, he choose to respond lightly “Well since I've never told him my first name, I figure we're pretty even.” Well that didn't come out bitter at all did it?  
  
She sobered up after a moment and seemed to hesitate before continuing, as if trying to figure out how to broach the subject, before, in typical Eames style, jumping in with both feet, albeit with more cool professionalism than he'd ever tried, or wanted, to muster. “Arthur Miller was picked up by Cobol Engineering two weeks ago. I thought you might like to know”  
  
The inkling of dread that had appeared when she first broached the subject turned in a gaping maw of despair. “Wh...” he coughed and tried again “Where? What happened?”. Two weeks ago was just after they had gone their separate ways in Hong Kong, with a promise to meet up in Paris once Eames had sorted a couple of things in London and Arthur had ensured all the loose ends were thoroughly tidied up from the previous job.  
  
His sister shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional undercurrent of the conversation.. “Apparently they caught up to him in Singapore, ran them a merry chase from all accounts before they finally got him.” And Eames couldn't help but smile grimly at that, because Arthur was never one to give in easy. “He's still alive, as far as I know, but I'm afraid I really can't tell you any more.”  
  
The wording triggered a cold anger in him, a suspicion that she was trying to hide information from him, her own brother, when it was about something this important. When it was about Arthur “Can't or won't? Come on, Emms, playing coy never was your style.” He grab her arm as she tried to pull away, gripping tightly, ignoring the grimace of pain.  
  
“Your memory must be faulty, I seem to remember you were the one handing out blow-jobs behind the bike shed,” she snapped back, then gave a mirthless laugh, as if she'd just figured something out. “Fuck, you really must care for this lad.”  
  
The automatic denial, that whatever it was between them was nothing that more than taking comfort in the body of another who won't shot them in the head before morning (well at least most of the time), died on his lips. Because as much as they were good at lying to each other, lying to themselves, right now lying to anyone else just seemed like far too much effort. Because somewhere, out there Arthur was in danger and all Eames could really concentrate on right now is getting enough information to find him and bring him home safe.  
  
Ignoring his aborted attempt to speak, or possibly just oblivious, something he wouldn't put past her, she continued. “I'm serious though James, this really is all I know. Fuck, the only reason I even have this information was thanks to an old friend of father's, no you can't ask who. I shouldn't even be seen with you given you're current legal status, I hope you appreciate how much I'm risking here.” Her voice became sharper and she grimaced slightly as she realised that the volume had gone up too.  
  
Eames studied her face, looking for any sign of deception, of manipulation but all he could see was an apologetic grimace, tinged with pain. He remembered suddenly where his hand was and unclenched it from her arm, a move that seemed to take far more effort that it had any right to. She immediately started massaging where his fingers had gripped, a hiss of pain under her breath. He felt a pang of guilt at that, before pushing it aside, she could take care of herself and he had more important things to worry about.  
  
Pulling himself together, he got up and gave her a surprisingly tender kiss on the cheek by way of apology. “Thank you for the information,” he said with a heartfelt sincerity that surprised even him, “give my love to mum, yeah?”  
  
Before he could pull away she got up and hugged him, slipping something heavy into his pocket. “Take care of yourself James, I mean it. I expect to see you back home for Christmas” she stepped away and gave him an ironic smile, “bring Arthur too, I'm sure mother would love to meet him.”  
  
He was touched by the confidence she seemed to convey in his abilities to find the other man. He just wished he shared it. He headed out the café, pulling out his phone as he did and dialled in a familiar number. If he was going to save the man he lov... cared deeply for, he was going to need back up, and he knew just where to get it.


	2. Hong Kong: 28th August, 4.23am

Arthur - Hong Kong: 28th August, 4.23am  
  
They left the hotel room at exactly 23 minutes past 4, local time, approximately five minutes after emerging from the shared dream by Arthur's watch, despite Eames' best attempts to delay them with strategically placed groping, and about two and a half hours before their mark would wake up from his drug induced slumber, depending on the vagaries of the man in question's particular biochemistry and metabolism. He briefly glanced at the corpulent figure on the hotel bed as he locked the room behind them and revised his estimate down to 2 hours given the body mass involved and the dosage used.  
  
He resisted glancing at the man at his side, something that took more willpower than he was willing to admit, and turned to head casually down the plush carpet of the luxurious hotel that the mark was staying in, PASIV a comforting weight in the briefcase at his side.  
  
He didn't even get a step before a all too familiar hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into a searing kiss. He suppressed, with almost more effort than he'd care to admit, the near overwhelming desire to melt into the kiss, instead pulling back with a disapproving frown, “Not now!” he hissed through gritted teeth. He glanced around. The corridor was empty and the hotel room door was in a CCTV blind-spot. He'd made sure of it. Even so, they couldn't risk been seen together, not this soon after a job, and certainly not like this.  
  
Eames just grinned mockingly at him before leaning forward and breathing into his ear, “Really darling, you need to relax more. I'll see you at the airport.” He then sauntered casually off down the hallway, weaving as if drunk and looking for all the world like he'd just snuck out of a hotel room after a one-night stand, instead of an evening of pulling out all the sordid little secrets of a corrupt banker with a penchant for smacking around hookers.  
  
Clenching his fists so hard he almost drew blood, Arthur took one breath, then two, getting himself back under control. He straightened his tie, and walked calmly down the other direction down the hotel hallway, his mind occupied with plotting the many and varied ways he could extract his revenge on the insufferable forger who had somehow managed to worm his way far too completely into his life.  
  
++++  
  
He saw him again five hours later at the airport, whilst absent mindedly browsing the duty free, waiting for his flight to be called. They always separated after a job, taking different flights to separate locations. It would be a minimum of two weeks before they contacted each other again. In part because it was safer this way, too many near misses of being seen together had made that lesson obvious. More than that though was a need for each of them to regain their own individuality, their own identities from the almost terrifying intimacy they tended to fall into when working closely together on a job for weeks or months at a time. For each of them to have their own space to breath.  
  
But before they went their separate ways, there was always this, a near ritual by now developed over too long sharing each others beds and even longer sharing each others dreams.  
  
Arthur studiously avoided making any movement as Eames brushed past him in the shop, in a gesture that to an outsiders view would have been nothing more than an accidental touch in a too-crowded airport. He also avoided doing more than glancing in the forgers direction, noting which toilets he was heading towards before calming picking up the copy of The Economist he'd been browsing and taking it to the counter, snagging a bottle of mineral water on the way.  
  
Five minutes later, after carefully pulling the 'Facilities closed, Cleaning in Progress' sign across the bathroom entrance, he was being dragged into one of the stalls and was being drawn into a passionate and relentless kiss. This time he did give into temptation, returning it with equal ferocity, pushing the other man further into the stall. There was no words during the moments that followed, only frantic tearing at clothes, muffled groans and the sound of flesh against flesh.  
  
After, though, as they carefully pulled their clothes back into place to avoid arousing suspicion there was the same quiet conversation as always.  
  
“Where to now, love?” Arthur glared slightly at the term of endearment but didn't comment. It was an inflection of speech nothing more, no matter how much he'd like for it to be otherwise.  
  
“Singapore, for a couple of days, to tidy up. I'll wire the rest of your pay to the usual address.”  
  
Eames nodded at that. They'd always tried to keep their business and personal separate, at least when it came to money. They were too professional to do otherwise. “I'll be in London for a couple of weeks, got a job lined up but shouldn't take long.”  
  
“Extraction?” Arthur asked sharply. Not, he reminded himself, that he had any exclusive claims on Eames' skill as a forger, but somehow the idea of the man going to into dreams without him stung more than he'd be willing to admit.  
  
“Why, Arthur, if I didn't know better I'd say you were jealous.” And damn him for having that knowing smirk on his face, the one that made him want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. “It's a favour for a friend. His crew specialise in pulling the long con, and need another person to make up the numbers. Don't worry love, this is just a bit part, should be a piece of cake.”  
  
“Good.” He nodded as if that was settled. He started picking up his Economist, now slightly stained. He looked at it for a moment, considering if it was salvageable, before reluctantly wrapping it up in a carrier bag to be disposed of later.  
  
“Cobb called with a job last night, he wants us in Paris by the beginning of October. You still have the key to the apartment?” He doesn't look at Eames when he makes the offer, as if his answer wasn't important to him. Shouldn't be important to him.  
  
“Not that a little thing like a lock has ever stopped me before,” he drawled amused, but then continued quickly, as if maybe he had seen what Arthur had been trying to hide, “but for the sake of avoiding scandalising the neighbours, I'll use your key. We can just scandalise them in other ways later on.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said it, sending a jolt of lust straight through the point man like nothing else had.  
  
It made the parting all that more harder, as he was certain that Eames, infuriating, obnoxious Eames had fully intended. Steeling himself, he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss on his lips before, in a fit of mischievous impulse leaning down the whisper in his ear, “Remember that apartment has a balcony, if we play it right we could scandalise the whole street.” He turned to leave savouring the look on the other man's face all the way onto the flight.  
  
+++++  
  
Singapore: 28th August, 10.15pm  
  
He was being followed, again.  
  
He'd first spotted them at the airport, it would have been difficult not to, they weren't exactly subtle about it. Two of them, Caucasian, large,muscled and in cheap suits and with the slight bulge under their jackets that indicated that whatever else they were, they were most definitely armed. Feigning lack of awareness he casually studied the train timetable before heading down the steps to the platform, just as a busy shuttle train pulled into the station. As his tail tried to push through the deluge of humanity trying to get in the shortest space of time from the train to the airport, Arthur ducked further down the platform heading back up in the elevators further down, before ducking into the first taxi he could find.  
  
Somehow, however, between his hotel and the meet point with his client, or between meeting with his client and heading back towards the hotel, he'd managed to pick up the tail again. No, definitely after he'd met with the client, he would have spotted them otherwise. He wondered briefly if Mr Lo Tang had sold him out, but pushed the thought from his mind as something to deal with after he'd gotten rid of his unwelcome company.  
  
He cursed briefly the impulse which had led him to decide to walk back to his hotel, rather than take a cab. The evening had been pleasant and warm and the area, although not a tourist district, was distinctly in one of the nicer parts of town. He was regretting the choice now. Although if they'd found him here, chances are his hotel was compromised too. He'd have to abandon the bags he'd left back at the hotel, shame, he quite liked those suits. Although his best were, for the most part, spread between his flats in Paris or Los Angeles, with few distinct examples that had somehow found their way to Manchester. He was only glad however that he'd already sent the PASIV by secure transport to Paris.  
  
He counted four of them in total, the two from the airport and two more who, by the looks of them, could have been their clones. Ruthlessly suppressing the urge to run, because frankly, the last thing you want to do when you realise you have a tail is draw attention to the fact you know. All that really does is loose you the element of surprise. It was number two on Arthur's list of What Not To Do When You Have a Tail. He tried to teach Cobb the rules, but they never stuck. He'd tried to teach Eames too, but found that not only was the forger more than familiar with them, he had a couple of new ones to add to the list.  
  
Instead he ducked into a corner bar, picking up his pace as soon as he was off the street to weave his way through the patrons and out the other exit into a side-street. Not, of course an alleyway, never an alleyway, but a smaller connecting street between two larger main streets.  
  
He could hear the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the side door he'd just exited the bar from. Two pairs. He smiled grimly, they were almost making this too easy.  
  
He was on top of them before they'd even exited the door, taking full advantage of their surprise. He grabbed the arm of the first one out, pulling him forwards, as a jab to the throat and a knee in the gut left the man crawling on the floor gasping for breath. His friend was more alert however, moving to side to deflect Arthur's roundhouse and catching him with a glancing blow to the head. The point man saw stars for a moment and that was all the opportunity the other man, let's call him goon number 2, needed to grab him from behind and use his superior size pin his arms down, clearly waiting for his friend, let's call him goon number 1, to stop puking his guts up and join back in the fight.  
  
That was not something Arthur was particularly inclined to allow. Allowing himself to go slack, he waiting till his captor shift to get a better grip before stamping down hard on his instep and, as he came forward in pain, ramming his head back as hard as he could, catching him firmly on the nose. As the arms holding him loosened, their owner groaning in pain, he pushed back, ramming goon #2 into the wall for good measure, the man's hitting brick work with a sickening crunch.  
  
Arthur could feel the blood from the other man's broken nose dripping down his neck, even as the same slowly slid down the wall into oblivion. He winced briefly at the thought of what the blood was doing to his suite, one of his best suits, before turning his attention to ensuring that goon #1, just about recovering from his initial assault reconsidered his options of rejoining the fight.  
  
Barely having time to catch his breath, he heard more footsteps coming his way, four pairs this time and the absurd thought, popped into his head that maybe they were like the mythical Hydra, for every one he took down, two more would come in their place. Biting back a laugh, he started heading away from the two, hopefully only unconscious bodies at his feet, toward the main thoroughfare running parallel to the street he'd previously left, stopping only long enough to appropriate one of the guns the men had so thoughtfully provided for him.  
  
The street was heaving with people, the cities affluent residents out for a night of entertainment at one of the many bars, clubs and restaurants lining its sides. Arthur pushed into the crowd, hoping that he could loose his pursuers in the throng, or at the very least slow them down by the sheer mass of people. It might have worked too, except for the amount of noise and disturbance they were making pushing through the crowd after him, apart from the small knot of police further up who's attention was starting to be drawn towards the exclamations and anger from the crowd at being barged through like this.  
  
Arthur wasn't so naïve as to imagine that being picked up by the police at this moment, in this country, with blood on his collar and a stolen gun in his waistband was in any way a good thing, or even a better alternative to being caught by his unsubtle but, it would appear, oh so persistent tail. Instead he ducked into the nearest restaurant before the police could figure out exactly who the others were chasing and decided to take his chances away from the watching eye of the law.  
  
He briefly thought then discarded the idea of trying to mingle in with the other patrons and hope his pursuers wouldn't spot him. After all it was never good idea to try and blend in when you were the wrong age, gender or ethnicity as absolutely everyone else around you, number 8 on the list, and somehow he had wandered into a restaurant where he was two for three. Pushing past the startled Maitre d' he headed instead further in, hoping against hope there was another exit out the back.  
  
There was unfortunately it was through the kitchen. Rule number 4, never try running through kitchens, they are filled with knives, hot things and very angry people who know how to use both. Even so, it was better than the alternative and the alternative was closing fast. Even as he was weaving his way of pans of hot oil and shouting apologies in a bastardised mix of English, French and Cantonese, he nonetheless noticed a movement out the corner of his eye. Grabbing the nearest knife, and thankfully access to sharp things worked both ways, he threw it across the kitchen back towards the door he'd just come from. It wasn't a particularly elegant or accurate throw, kitchen knives not known for their aerodynamics, but it was good enough to send the gun clattering out of the suited figures hand. And then he was out the back door and in the fresh air of freedom.  
  
In the change in atmosphere between the alleyway out back and the kitchen, he almost missed the man who'd been clearly sent round the back to make sure he didn't do just this. Almost, but not quite, missed the two by four descending towards him. He managed to twist out the way just in time, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder as something sharp dug in despite the glancing blow. Then he was grabbing his assailants arm and a sharp crack sounded as he twisted it, something, somewhere clearly breaking. Arthur was running again before he even hit the ground.  
  
++++  
  
In the end they caught him. He would like to have blamed it on bad luck, but really the only thing he could think of as he turned the corner of the small backstreet he had ducked down was that the wall facing him was the perfect mocking illustration of number one on his list of What Not To Do When Loosing a Tail. 'Never run down an alleyway in a city you don't know, it always ends up dead ends and tears'.  
  
Turning he could see the shapes of four figures entering the alleyway behind them. He took a sense of satisfaction that one of them was holding his arm at a distinctly odd angle. He did a mental calculation on the odds and smiled grimly. The fact that only one of them had thus far pulled a gun, and then only with questionable intentions to use it, probably meant that they at least wanted him alive. If he went for his own weapon then the odds are he would be leaving this alleyway in a coffin and he could think of much more dignified ways to die.  
  
If Eames had been here, he probably would have made a suitable quip about 'being able to talk this over', but he wasn't and none of the men in front of him looked like their were in a talking mood. Still he wasn't going to make it easy for them. Grabbing the nearest heavy object he could find, a large piece of wood from what had once been a packing crate, he braced himself and waiting for them to make their first move.  
  
The first one who came at him collapsed half a second later from a vicious blow to the knee, but the next one had already moved in and the blow to the side of his head send him staggering. He lashed out and heard with satisfaction another cry of pain. But then there were too many of them, with feet and fists everywhere and Arthur's world soon descended into a litany of hurt and pain. It was clear that alive didn't necessarily mean unhurt, and its clear they were extracting their revenge for their two colleagues lying in the side street and the chase he'd led them on before they caught up to him. Eventually, a gun butt to the side of his head sent him into blissful unconsciousness.


	3. London: 12th September 8.12am

Eames - London: 12th September 8.12am  
  
Eames was on the phone to Cobb almost before he left café, barely even paying attention to the time difference. Not that he usually paid attention to such things, though Arthur had been steadily drilling the principle into him.  
  
The call went straight through to answer phone.  
  
He tried the house phone, and got essentially the same result. He suppressed a thread of dread that Cobol had somehow managed to get to Cobb too, but then dismissed the idea. Cobol had little sway in the States, certainly not enough to challenge the level of protection offered by their association with Saito.  
  
Leaving messages on both machines to call him back, along with the number of the current mobile he was using. He'd get rid of the phone before he left London.  
  
He called Ariadne on the way back to the hotel. He tried to keep the conversation light, but something of his emotional turmoil must have showed in his voice, because she asked in a firm, but concerned voice, “Did you and Arthur have a fight?” He choked out a bitter laugh at that, and assured her that whatever the issue was, that certainly wasn't it. But despite her questioning he was unwilling to break the news to her over the phone like this, especially not on an unsecured line.  
  
Despite the lack of information, he managed to convince to fly out to Singapore on the next possible flight. He especially made her promise to be Careful. She knew what that meant, it was one of the things Arthur had drilled into her when she had first come back after the Inception job unable to stay away from dreaming, unable to stay even in safe, legal, dreaming. Not when she knew the world of extraction was out that with all its excitement and thrills.  
  
Yusuf was easier, he called him once he got back to the hotel, half way through packing. The chemist had been in the business long enough to know better than to ask questions when getting a phone call in the middle of the night. Especially one asking him to travel half way round to the world. There were others he could call, other teams, other extractors, but none he'd worked with so closely, none who'd worked with Arthur so closely. Inception had cemented something between them like no other job had, and there was no one else he would trust to call.  
  
He even almost called Saito several times, but every time thought better of it. The man owed them, had employed them since and financed their jobs on more than one occasion. But he was an important, powerful man, and he could imagine there would be no better way to draw attention to them, to the fact they knew that to get in contact. No, Saito would have to wait until they had something more solid.  
  
He took off his jacket to pack it and that was when he noticed the extra weight. It was the package his sister had snuck in his pocket as she hugged him good-bye. He drew it out, a plain brown envelope, how very cliché. In it was a mobile phone, a mid-end Pay as You Go, with a garish pink post-it on it. The familiar messy handwriting indicated that it was 'For Emergencies Only', the only underlined several times to emphasise the point. The phone itself contained a single number, no name attached, and a video file.  
  
He peered at it briefly, trying to figure out what he was seeing. It appeared to be CCTV footage, dated two weeks ago, showing an airport arrival lounge. It was busy, figures walking across shot, some pushing carts laden with baggage, others carrying nothing more than a small duffle bag or suitcase. He was puzzled briefly until he saw him. Eames made it his job to study people, their mannerism and quirks and he'd recognise that profile anywhere. The set of his shoulders, the confidence of his gait, the tight, effortless control and economy of movement that just made him Arthur. Even the casual travel clothes, which might seem out of place to those who were more used to seeing the man in three-piece suits, were oh so very Arthur. He didn't need to do any mental calculations on the time stamp to work out this must have been when the point man had landed in Singapore.  
  
He spotted the two men following him almost as soon as they came into shot, the Arthur on the video clearly had too. There was no overt tell, not to anyone who didn't know him, but Eames had made studying Arthur into an art-form, and noticed immediately the slight change in gait, the tensing of the muscles ready for action and the barely noticeable change in direction and then he was off-shot, heading off somewhere to try and loose his tail no doubt.  
  
'Well, we all know how they went,' Eames thought bitterly to himself. In the few seconds before the video ended the men following him seemed to scan round the lobby, checking no doubt that they weren't being watched themselves, and for a split second looked directly at the camera. 'Gottcha, you bastards'.  
  
He was still studying the image, trying to make out their features on the tiny screen when his phone rang. It was Cobb, he can hear children in the background and wonders what they're doing up at whatever time in the morning it is over there.  
  
“Eames, do you know what time it is over here?” He sounds tired, but the greeting holds little frustration, just a well-worn habit born from too many late night phone calls.  
  
“Yeah, sorry about that mate, I didn't wake you did I?” He's avoiding the issue he know, but convincing Cobb to leave his family and fly half way round the world on short notice with little to no explanation is not a conversation he's looking forward too. Of course, he's even less looking forward to explaining to Cobb how he let the man he considers to be his little brother get kidnapped, no matter that said man is more than capable of looking after himself. At least most of the time.  
  
“No, no, we were at the hospital, Phillipa fell and hurt her leg.” No wonder he sounded tired. Cobb continued cutting off Eames even as he voiced the question, “she's fine, just a sprain, but they kept us waiting for hours.” He sighed and then, when it was clear the other man wasn't going to start, he tackled the conversation head on, “What's wrong?”  
  
The 'What did you do now?' was unspoken but clearly there, and under other circumstances Eames might have taken issue with it, but there were more important things to deal with now. “How quickly can you get to Singapore?” he asked instead.  
  
“Etienne's here, so I can be on the next plane out in the morning. Why? What's happened?”  
  
“I'll tell you everything when you get here.” Cobb started to argue, but he barrelled on, hoping to cut off his arguments, because really, he didn't want to get into this. “Really, trust me, this is important, but I can't tell you like this. I just need you to get here as soon as you can” he took a deep breath, “and bring the briefcase Arthur gave you”  
  
That cut off any arguments. The 'briefcase' in question contained not just a fake passport, but a whole fake identity, well-researched, backed-up by documentation, resistant to almost any and all scrutiny. Arthur had started putting it together before Inception, as a way for Cobb to make it back to America despite the warrant. He'd never used it, his family was too closely watched for him to have gotten to see them and somehow being in the same country as them would have only made it worse. But he'd kept it in case of emergencies.  
  
Eames asking him to use it conveyed in so few words exactly how bad the situation was. He said the only thing he could say after that, “I'll be there by tomorrow evening.”  
  
+++++  
  
Singapore, 13th September 11.58pm  
  
Eames made it out to Singapore on the first flight he could get. Of course, the first flight he could get was considerably sooner than the first flight available by any legal means. But Eames was a con artist and a thief as much as he was a forger and arranging a flight out at short notice was hardly a stretch of his abilities. Using less than legal challenges also had the advantage of avoiding annoying technicalities like visas and paper trails.  
  
The others took somewhat longer to make it there, although the difference in distance could have had more to do with it. Even so, by midnight the next day, he was leading them all into their new workspace with a flourish that felt fake even as he did went through the motions. He'd pulled some strings, from trusted sources, to get them an abandoned office to work in, with a small apartment upstairs removing the added need, and risk, sourcing a hotel would entail. This was normally Arthur's job, which probably explained their penchant for working in stark, utilitarian facilities, 'The unimaginative sod he was', he thought fondly.  
  
He'd barely closed the door before the barrage of questions started, asking him 'why they were here?' and 'what was this all about?'. However, it was Ariadne, who'd been silent thus far, looking around the small office with a level of curiosity, who asked the pertinent question, “Where's Arthur?”  
  
That shut them up. Cobb looked around the workspace, as if seeing it for the first time. Instead of the neat order that the point man always set up, it still had furniture strewn all over the floor, covered in a layer of dust and grime which would not have been acceptable to any workspace which Arthur inhabited. He turned back to Eames and the forger could see him putting the pieces together. There were many terms that could be used to describe the extractor, but stupid was not one of them, and his next words, oh so quiet, but forceful nonetheless, confirmed it, “What happened?”  
  
Eames could feel the fragile façade of normality he'd been trying to maintain crack at that. He sighed and grabbed one of the chairs littered around the room before sitting down. He took an extra moment to brush off the dust before he did, partly because of habit after so many years of being around Arthur but mostly because it meant he could avoid looking Cobb is the eye that extra precious few seconds. Finally he faced them, and their curious, concerned faces. He bit the bullet, “Cobol Engineering happened”  
  
There was silence for a few seconds as the others processed this, and then it was like a dam had broken. The questions flew thick and fast, mostly from Ariadne, but some from Yusuf, Eames answered them as best he could, barely having time to pause between one answer and the next. Throughout the process Cobb remained silent. It was only after Eames had told them all he knew and showed them the surveillance footage, now downloaded to the laptop, the better resolution allowing for a full crisp view of the men following Arthur, that Cobb spoke up, asking a single question, “Where were you during all of this?”  
  
The accusation, so clear in the question, stung “We'd gone our separate ways after completing an extraction, highly successful I might add. A security measure I believe you instituted. So I imagine at the time this video footage was taken, I was on a plane back to London” He didn't even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. Cobb opened his mouth to respond but Ariadne cut in heading off the inevitable argument. Eames was certain if he wanted to kiss her or hit her because of it.  
  
“So, if you were in London, how do you know all of this?” She asked, clearly trying to reduce the problem to a puzzle to be solved, her way of dealing with things.  
  
“Let's just say I still have my sources and leave it at that”  
  
“These sources, do you trust them?” Cobb again, accusatory as if Eames had kidnapped the point man himself.  
  
“About as far as I could throw her, although that may actually be a bit too far.” Eames responded drily, he was under no illusions that his sister had given him the information entirely out of concern for his welfare. “But I'm pretty certain she's not actively trying to get me killed”  
  
Cobb looked at him as if thinking things through, before nodding once and getting up to face to whiteboard still somehow attached the wall of the office and started writing even as he listed the sum of what they knew. Cobb was taking charge, as he always did. “We know Arthur arrived safely at the airport two weeks ago, where apparently he picked up a tail.”  
  
Though Eames had never been a leader, nor, he admitted to himself, much of a follower either, he couldn't help but feel a flash of anger at the way the other man so effortlessly waltz in and took control. Because dammit, this wasn't just some job, this was about Arthur. He pushed the feeling down, because this was the whole reason he'd called in the extractor, because this was what he did, and despite his semi-retirement, he was still the best.  
  
“And lost them again soon after.” Eames interjected, “Did some asking around whilst I was waiting for you lot to turn up. Folks are being surprisingly mum despite my considerable charms, but seems like he managed to book into a hotel for the night and pay a visit to our client to get things sorted. He wouldn't have risked either if he still had a tail.” Eames knew he probably came across as smug as he said it, demonstrating his superior knowledge of the point man but he couldn't resist it. After all, he was self-aware enough to admit that he'd never been particularly rational when it came to the hold that Cobb seemed to have over Arthur.  
  
Either oblivious or ignoring the tone Eames used, he nodded and noted the information down on the board, “Right, so they must have picked up his trail again after the meet. Which gives us several leads to go on: the hotel, the client and the men from the CCTV footage.”  
  
“Hey, it's a start isn't it” Ariadne interjected with an optimistic smile which clearly didn't make it to her eyes.  
  
+++++  
  
Singapore, 20th September, 8.43pm  
  
They'd hit nothing but dead ends. A week, a whole week of searching, a whole during which they could be doing who knows what to Arthur, and they'd found sweet fuck all.  
  
They hadn't really expected to get any information out of the hotel, but Yusuf and Ariadne had gone along nonetheless. A smile to the right receptionist, a sob story about a missing brother and she was hearing about how 'of course they'd noticed the handsome businessman'. He'd booked in for only one night, paying in advance, cash, and who'd stayed for approximately two hours to get changed from his travelling clothes into a very nice three-piece suit, and then left the hotel never to return. They'd even managed to get the rest of Arthur's things off them, after all they were only taking up space in storage.  
  
Finding their client was easier than expected. Unfortunately this was because Mr Lo Tang had been involved in an 'tragic' fire at his place of residence. They'd spotted the funeral announcement barely a day after they had arrived. Everything had gone up in flames, all his records, paperwork, anything that could have possibly helped them get a lead. The timing was too perfect and Eames fervently wished that the man was still alive so he could kill him himself for selling Arthur out.  
  
The men from the video footage had been more difficult to track down, and it took all of Cobb and Eames considerable skill, not to mention favours called in, to find them. One, a Mr John Smith according to his records, and really the name was so painfully obviously fake, was in hospital suffering from cracked ribs, a shattered ankle and a concussion. The Brit felt a certain measure of pride that whatever else had happened, Arthur clearly hadn't gone quietly. The other, Tom Jones, and Eames had to suppress a wince at that one, because really who was coming up with these names, had been through the hospital, a broken arm this time, and had conveniently left them a home address.  
  
Not that any of that actually helped them, given that whoever these guys really were, they were clearly just hired muscle, on retained for Cobol and contacted anonymously whenever there was a job to do. Even after a painfully easy extraction, they were left none the wiser, just that they'd grabbed Arthur and after taking the time to 'subdue' him, had dumped him in the back of a van and that was that. They'd even found the van, stolen of course, burnt out in a parking lot. It was beginning to look like someone had an unfortunate obsession with fire.  
  
Tensions had been running high for days as one by one their leads went up in smoke, literally in more than one case. Thinking back on it, the argument was inevitable.  
  
Eames couldn't even say what had set it off, something small no doubt, a wrong comment here, a frustrated word there and then he and Cobb were in each others faces, accusations of blame flying everywhere.  
  
“This is your fault.” Cobb was shouting, so close he was almost shoving him, and Eames took an involuntary step back from the force of anger, “If we'd have known about this sooner instead of two weeks after we might have had something to go on.”  
  
“Oh really, my fault, and how pray tell is that my fault? I'm not psychic, if it wasn't for me we might not have known till we were all gathered round in Paris, wondering why our ever punctual point man hadn't turned up, hmm?” He smirked in a way he knew was guaranteed to get Cobbs blood boiling.  
  
“He should never have been in Singapore without back-up. Hell what were you two doing taking the job on your own in the first place, anything could have gone wrong?” Despite Eames best efforts, Cobb was not backing off  
  
“Well excuse me for treating Arthur like an adult who is more than capable of taking care of himself. Despite what you may think, we don't hang around by the phone, waiting for you to deign to call us. We can actually do jobs without the Great Dominic Cobb to guide our every move.” It was like waving a red flag and this time Cobb actually did push him up against the wall.  
  
“And what's that suppose to mean?” the words were gritted out between clenched teeth and Eames got the feeling that the extractor might actually hit him. He couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
“You. We hardly hear from you for eleven months of the year, and then you call out the blue and expect us to drop everything and come at your beck and call like an obedient dog. Oh wait, I tell a lie, not us, you expect Arthur to come, ever loyal, faithful Arthur. I bet it must kill you that he has a life outside of you, that he doesn't need you!” The words obviously struck a nerve because this time Cobb did go to hit him, and Eames, in no mood to be anyone's punching bag, raised his arm to block the hit but before it could strike home Ariadne's voice rang out around the workspace.  
  
“Stop it! Just stop it, both of you, you're NOT helping! If you can't both act like adults maybe you should just leave instead.” She was glaring at them from across the room, though Eames could see tears of hurt trying to force their way out and it was obvious this was getting to her as much as it was to all of them.  
  
They drew apart guiltily, frustration still visible in every line of their bodies. Cobb moved first, stalking over to the worktable and pulling out files, with a muttered “I have work to do” under his breath.  
  
Eames felt the sudden need to get out of the office, the small workspace suddenly becoming far too claustrophobic for the four of them. “I need a fag,” he announced to the room at large, before grabbing his cigarettes off the table, he paused then leaned down to grab the phone Ems had given him from off the table, and made his way up to the small flat and then out onto the fire escape.  
  
He was on his fifth cigarette and third watch through of the CCTV footage when he heard a sound from the small living room which adjoined the fire escape. It was Ariadne, quelle surprise. She gave him a small smile as she climbed out next to him and he moved over to give her more room.  
  
They sat in companionable silence for a while, before she ventured, half hopefully, “Why don't we just grab one of the guys from Cobol and have a look around their minds. I mean Cobol's a pretty big company right? Shouldn't be too difficult to find one of their high-ups?” She was twirling her hair round her finger as she spoke, a habit that annoyed him no end, which probably explained the sharpness of his reply.  
  
“Which one love? Like you say, Cobol's a big company, chances are we'd just end up grabbing some poor sod who works in HR and doesn't have a scooby about any of his employer's more exotic pursuits but who knows just enough about extraction to be able to warn them that we're on to them. And then we'll be even worse off than we are now.”  
  
“It was just a suggestion,” she replied, somewhat hurt by his sarcasm, but really Eames couldn't bring himself to care. No matter how he looked at the problem, he kept on coming up blank. He had called in every favour, every mark he had and was turning up nothing. He couldn't help but feel he was missing something, some clue, but he just couldn't see what it was.  
  
She doesn't speak again until he's reaching for another fag, lighting it with a tasteful silver lighter with an intertwined A and E carved on the underside, a gift from Arthur, one of the small things that showed he cared, even if he never was good at saying it.  
  
“How long have you and Arthur been...” she trailed off as if hesitating verbalising it.  
  
“What, working jobs together” He asked with a teasing smile.  
  
“No! You know... together?”  
  
Now there was a question, not one he could really answer, so he played for time, “Who says we're together then love?” And of course it had the added advantage of making her squirm.  
  
“You mean you're not? But I assumed... ” she spluttered.  
  
He decided to put her out of her misery, “Relax pet, we are. Been four years or so, off and on.” 'Off and on', now there was an understatement. He smiled at her confused look and he could guess what she was thinking, her next words confirming it.  
  
“So you guys were together during the Fischer job, when he kis...” she trailed off as if realising what she was saying, clearly worried she'd let some big secret out. He had to laugh at that, she really did have no clue.  
  
“When he kissed you in the hotel lobby you mean. I was there love, wearing a lovely little blond number if you recall.”  
  
“So what, he was trying to make you jealous?” She was genuinely confused, obviously reading far more into the kiss that he suspected the point man had meant.  
  
He snorted, “Maybe a bit, but mostly I think he was just trying to distract the projections love.” He grinned at her as he continued, “sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar”. She wasn't convinced, but Eames was a master at reading people's body language and even if he didn't know full well that Arthur's interest in women was minimal to say the least, the body language of the kiss was chaste and lacking in passion, even if there was some measure of affection behind it.  
  
He turned his attention back to the CCTV footage which had started its play again. Somehow this time he saw it and he could have slapped himself for being so dense. He'd been concentrating on the details, trying to analyse it as he knew their missing point man would. But really he should have been looking at the body language instead.  
  
Now he had noticed it, noticed him, he stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn't in the clothes, he was dressed like any of the umpteen businessmen travelling through, it was in anything he was doing, he barely looked up from the paper he was studying. But something about his body language was off, and as he watched he spotted what it was. Every time he did glance up, although only for a few seconds, he didn't around aimlessly or check the departure time, like all those other travellers were doing. Instead his eyes were unerringly drawn towards the figure of the point man making his way through the airport.  
  
This was the break they'd been waiting for.  
  
+++++  
  
They were walking together along the river Seine, sunlight glinting off the windows of the magnificent buildings of this historic part of the city. Despite the sunlight, the air was crisp with a spring chill, none of which had managed to deter many of the cities inhabitants from heading out to enjoy the sunshine and they ended up having to share the path with other couples and young families. All out enjoying the first good weather that the city had seen in weeks.  
  
Eames didn't like Paris as a rule. Sure it was pretty enough, but the people were eminently arrogant and rude and it always had far too many tourists coming to sample the 'magic' of the allegedly most romantic city in the world. He was more than aware of the hypocrisy of the complaints, coming as they were from a native Londoner, but then he never really like London all that much either. But at moments like this he could almost learn to love the place. More to the point, he could almost let himself love the man walking next to him.  
  
Arthur was looking resplendent, as always, in a sharp Dunhill suit. More to the point he looked relaxed and calm, clearly enjoying the morning sun, the fresh air, the simple pleasure of being. Moments like these were few and far between, just the two of them, walking in companionable silence, and Eames treasured every second of it. He glanced over at the point man, admiring the sharp planes of his features and the lines of his body. There was something niggling at him in the back of his mind. Something important he meant to remember but then the edges of Arthur's mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile and Eames forgot there was anything at all outside the two of them.  
  
“Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to stare?” Arthur asked him, mock annoyance tingeing his every word.  
  
“I can't help it if you're irresistible now can I love? It's all I can do to stop myself pulling you into that alleyway over there and having my wicked way with you” Eames replied with a grin, moving closer, into Arthur's personal space and the point man let him, a testament to how relaxed he was.  
  
“Resist. I have no wish to be arrested for public indecency.” But he was smiling as he said that, an amused tolerance for the other man's antics.  
  
He made no move to get away and Eames risked bringing his arms up around him and bending forward to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. Arthur responded almost instinctively, and for a few moments it was as if they were the only people on the otherwise crowded path, caught in their own bubble of time. Then the point man pulled away and firmly, but with an edge of reluctance, moving out of Eames' grasp.  
  
“Stop that.” The words were firm but Arthur beneath the frown it was clear that he was surpressing a smile of contenment and Eames took that as a very good sign.  
  
“I told you darling, you're irresistible.” He moved forward again with a grin, but this time the younger man did step out the way.  
  
“Find a way to contain yourself. I'm sure even with your libido you can manage until we make it back to the apartment.”  
  
“You wound me love, really you do.” Eames gave him a mock pout, but nonetheless stepped back to a distance more suited to polite company. They started walking again, a slow amble and after a couple of minutes Eames felt a hand reach out to his. He glanced at the other man but he was looking steadfastly ahead, the contented smile he'd been suppressing earlier now showing clearly on his face. The forger didn't even try to stop his grin at the action, because for Arthur, with all his clear boundaries about around his private life and what was and wasn't acceptable public displays of affection, holding hands was effectively an equivalent to getting down on his knees and giving him a blowjob in the middle of the road.  
  
At that moment, Eames knew it was pointless even pretending he wasn't hopelessly in love with the other man.  
  
They walked like that for what seemed like forever, as if the moment was too perfect to be broken for anything, but then the sky started to cloud over, and they headed back out onto the main boulevard, hoping to grab a taxi before the heavens opened and they both got drenched.  
  
The crowds were thicker here on the main street, and the two of them were jostled from all sides. Eames managed to fight his way through to the taxi rank, but when he looked around for Arthur there was no sign. It was as if the point man had vanished. Suddenly the crowd started to take on an ugly edge, like projections turning on the dreamer and Eames was gripped with a sense of panic. He reached for his totem, hearing what sounded like sirens in the distance.  
  
He awoke with a gasp.  
  
He was in one of the small bedrooms in the flat above their office space. The sirens were still going off and it took him a moment to realise that it was his alarm clock. He reached for it and took a perverse satisfaction from the sound the infernal contraption made as it hit the far side of the room, a final plaintive beep before sliding into silence. He reached over to the bedside table for his totem, running his fingers over the worn edges of the poker chip, feeling the grooves, the weight, the tiny details that told him that here, in this grotty little bedroom, was reality.  
  
Fuck, he hadn't had a dream in years. Not that it was truly a dream, more a memory of a time in Paris only a few months ago, between jobs, when they had spent close to a month just enjoying each others company. Only in reality they had made it back to the small flat Arthur rented in the city, unharmed but soaked through and Eames had insisted on stripping the point man of his wet clothes immediately to avoid him 'catching his death'. They hadn't gotten dressed again for the rest of the afternoon and later in the evening, with the light fading, Arthur had given him a key to the place with an off-hand 'so you don't keep having to pick the lock' clearly covering the deeper meaning of the gesture.  
  
With a sigh born from too little sleep, Eames staggered out of the bed, dragged his clothes haphazardly on and made his way downstairs to the small kitchenette where there was a pot of coffee waiting. He barely noticed the others as he walked past, blurry eyed, to ensure his caffeine fill. It was only once he had taken his first sip of coffee that Cobb started talking, “We've found out who he is.”  
  
Eames spun round at that, the first frisson of hope he'd felt in well over a week. Once Eames had spotted the man in the video, they'd called round every contact they had to try and identify him. They'd even called in one of the many favours with Saito and though there was no way the businessman could, should, come in person, he had promised to put as many resources as he could muster to problem. “After all,” he'd said with some affection, “Mr Arthur has proven to be one of my more reliable investments. It would be a shame to allow this to go to waste.”.  
  
That was barely two days ago, but it seems like their persistence had paid off. “Don't leave me in suspense here, who is the bastard so we can go and pay him a nice little visit?” And really, if this man was responsible for Arthur's disappearance, Eames was half tempted to suggest that they try and get the information out of him the old fashioned way. It may not be effective, but it would sure as hell make him feel better.  
  
“James Carnhain, Irish national, he's a VP for a company called Quartz Security.” Cobb reads out what he had found from the file and Eames can't help feel a stab of resentment that Arthur would have been able to rattle off details on a mark like this from memory instead of having to refer back to them every five minutes.  
  
“Let me guess, this Quartz Security just so happens to be a subsidiary of Cobol?”  
  
Cobb gave him a odd look and shook his head, “Freelance...” he tried to correct him but Eames wasn't paying attention, there was something else tickling at the back of his mind.  
  
“James Carnhain?” he rolled off the name, as if testing it “Ex-Provo? Big thing in the Real IRA back in the 90s?” Not just scum then, terrorist scum to boot.  
  
“How do you...?” Ariadne there, curious.  
  
He gave her a wry smile, “Spent a couple of years serving Her Majesty in Northern Ireland. Made quite a name for himself back in Belfast that bastard did, made his start blowing up squadies with pipe bombs before moving on to hunting down spooks for fun.”  
  
“Still does,” confirmed Cobb. “From the information Saito was able to give us, he moved out East after Good Friday and set up in counter-corporate espionage. He specialises in tracking down corporate spies and extractors. If anyone will have a lead on where they're keeping Arthur, this guy is it.”  
  
Yusuf spoke up from where he had been flipping through the file, “This won't be easy, someone like this, he will be militarised. You will need a stronger sedative than normal to keep the dreams stable” He held up his hand to head off the protests forming on the others lips, “not so strong as to no longer wake up, but strong nonetheless.”  
  
Cobb nodded, a plan clearly already formulating and suddenly Eames was nothing but glad that he had called the extractor, because this was what he did, this was what made him the best and if anyone could think up a plan, it was Cobb. “Yusuf work on refining the sedative then, I want something that can handle two levels. Ariadne, I'll need some time with you after to go over the levels.” The young architect nodded in afirmative to that, sketchbook open and eager. “Eames,” Cobb continued, “any chance you can track down some of his old IRA buddies to forge? Preferably one that still alive?”  
  
Eames nodded, “I think I know just the chap, nasty piece of work, should have just got out of Pentonville two years ago. Assuming he hasn't blown himself up in the meantime, he'll do.” He paused for a moment to give Cobb a chance to go on after the mutter 'good' in acknolwedgment of his suggestion.  
  
When it didn't looked like he would, he asked the obvious question. “ So when are we doing this then? I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not willing to leave Arthur in the hands of those bastards any longer than I need to” There was a challenge in his voice, and a promise, if this took too long, he was going after Carnhain on his own.  
  
“Three days, assuming the schedule Saito's people got us is right,” and there is frustration there, because Arthur would have gotten the marks movements down to the second. But the point man wasn't here, and they would have to make do with what they had. “He should have just gotten back from a business trip from Bangkok. I want to get Arthur back as much as you do, but we need to do this right, you know that Eames.” And Eames had to give him that one, fucking this up now would just make the task even more impossible than it already was.  
  
That didn't mean he had to like it any better.  
  
++++  
  
The next three days were filled with as much preparation as they could fit in physically do, and very little sleep. The plan was almost simple in its complexity, a hallmark of a genuine Cobb plan.  
  
They were going to play on Carnhain's past by making him think that the CIA had caught up with him and were trying to extract information from his mind. That was the deeper layer, the dream within a dream, the one he was meant to spot as fake. Ariadne would play the American spook, Cobb would be an extractor brought in to do the deed, who ultimately had been bought out by Carnhain's old pal, Mickey O'Herne. Once the Cobb had 'betrayed' his employers and shot Ariadne, him and Carnhain would make it up to the next level, where Eames would be waiting as good ol' Mickey and he and Cobb would make their escape with Carnhain from the security forces who would inevitably be after them.  
  
It was elegant really, by convincing the mark that the mental security that was after the dreamer, in this case Eames, was in fact after him, they would hopefully confuse the subconscious long enough to get the information.  
  
Eames could only see a hundred or so chances for it all to go horribly wrong, not least whether Ariadne had any chance of passing off as CIA. But really the sticking point was going to be whether Eames could get Carnhain to trust Mickey, to believe he was Mickey and for that he needed more information. And he knew just where to get it.  
  
The phone cut to answer phone straight away, as expected, an automated voice kindly asking him to leave a message. He figured she wouldn't have given him the number if the line wasn't at least mostly secure, so he came right out to ask for it. “Answer phone, lovely darling, what if this really was an emergency. Look, I need some info Mickey O'Herne, nothing that'd get you in trouble, but anything you've got on his relationship to James Carnhain would be lovely.” It was several hours until he got a reply, a string of letter and digits and the e-mail address to one of the many anonymous accounts he used for work related purposes.  
  
He could have kissed her, the encrypted file, although heavily sanitised, contained all the information he needed on one Mickey O'Herne, bomb maker, drug dealer and all around bastard really. It had attached an text file, with two words: “Remember, Christmas!” He grinned at that, and promised to himself he'd buy her an especially big present this year.  
  
He spent the next two days going studying the file and going under by himself, in an attempt to perfect the fake. He hated putting on an Irish accent, it reminded him too much of Belfast, of guns and bombs and communities trying to tear each other apart. But eventually, piece by piece, he got the forge down and all he could hope was that the file was complete enough for it to pass muster. Though he could take some comfort in the fact that, as far as he could tell, Carnhain hadn't seen Mickey since he'd been put away.  
  
By the third day the plan was refined as it could ever be, Cobb had confirmed Carnhain's itinerary through his own sources, it was just a question of getting Yusuf in place with the right taxi at the right time to pick him up. 'Because after his last display of driving ability that was clearly the best idea' Eames had thought when this was mentioned, but didn't dare voice it out loud in case Yusuf decided to add hallucinogens to his sedative the next time he was under.  
  
Ariadne perfected her mazes, a high class restaurant in first, because the CIA have even less imagination that Arthur, and the back alleys in some anonymous part of Singapore for the second, to buy them as much time as possible. They trained in them, again and again, using Eames' to provide the projections. It wasn't perfect, usually when they needed training against militarised targets, they'd use Arthur's mind to provide the projections, and sometimes Eames had to worry about exactly how vicious that man's subconscious could be, but in a pinch, Eames' mind would do.  
  
Despite the training and the work, it was what should have been a month long job pushed into three days, without the benefit of a point man either to cover the details. As a result, Eames was actually surprised when despite everything the extraction went off with barely a hitch.  
  
They picked the mark up from the airport as planned, an airborne sedative pumping into the back of the cab as it pulled away, gradually sending him under. Even Ariadne managed to pull off CIA spook down to a T, according to Cobb. Apparently, it really was quite surprising how much of an ice queen the architect could be when she put her mind to. She must have been taking lessons from Arthur.  
  
The only snag had come when Carnhain had started questioning 'Mickey' about former associates of theirs, clearly sounding him out with a sharpness that should have been expected given his file. He was glad that he had done some checking around of former associates before settling on O'Harne, because that allowed him to answer with some certainty that 'Tommy Finagle wasn't 'doing grand', him being six feet under for the past four years an' all' and that 'Mad Jessie was living up to his name in Broadmore, thank ye very much'.  
  
It was when Carnhain asked about 'whether he'd been to have a drink with Old Gordon?' as they were ducking behind a set of bins in a filthy alleyway that was pretending to be Singapore, trying to avoid getting shot up by the man's overly vicious projections, that Eames knew he had to put a stop to this line of questioning.  
  
“Oh aye, that's a nice joke since we both know Ol' Gordon hasn't touched a lick of alcohol in years,” he spat out. It was a guess, but really with the way the questions had been going, it really was a 50-50 chance and by the look on Carnhain's face it was the right one. “Now, you going to stop with the twenty questions and start working on how to get us out of here. Ye gotta know why them spooks were asking you about this fella. What's he called...” and that was Cobbs cue.  
  
“Arthur. They were asking something about an 'Arthur'”  
  
They got the information eventually. After being shot at far more times than was healthy and spending every moment of it trying to remind himself that they needed to keep Carnhain alive, despite rising temptations to throw him into the path of the projections bullets.  
  
They got all the information they needed and more. And suddenly it became much more clear why his sister, who shouldn't have had any access to this information at all, had sought him out in London. He should have probably felt angry or betrayed, but he couldn't really bring himself to feel anything but resigned. She always had been a manipulative bitch, it was a family trait they shared.  
  
But that was an issue for later. Because now they knew where Arthur was, and exactly why Carnhain had been travelling to Bangkok. Now they just needed to get there before it was too late.  
  
++++  
  
Bangkok, 25th September, 5.45pm  
  
They got there too late.  
  
It was a desolate place, an abandoned warehouse in a run-down part of the city. Like so many of the warehouses they'd used to work in, and yet so different, the fading sunlight filtering through broken and boarded up windows making a surreal tableau of the picture in front of them.  
  
There was rickety furniture strewn about the place, held up more by hope than by design, a table here, some chairs there, a small cot in the corner of the room and in the middle was a steel office chair, considerably more robust than anything else in the room. Handcuffs were lazily dangling off the arms, looking somehow mundane despite the rusted blood along the edge offering a dark hint as to what had happened to their occupant.  
  
Blood too was coagulating in a puddle at the base of the chair, spreading out like dark stain and pooling around a broken PASIV device, lying abandoned on the floor, it's IV lines strewn haphazardly around it. A small table lay on its side besides it, the bottles of chemicals, of sedatives and drugs and god knows what else, spilling out over the floor. It was too these Yusuf immediately went, to try and resolve the whole complex mess, failing the availability of copious amounts of alcohol, based on what he knew best. Chemicals  
  
But that wasn't what caught Eames attention so much as the bodies strewn across the floor, half a dozen men in cheap suits. What were once cheap suits, Eames, but were now little more than rags stained with blood. And most importantly, none of them were Arthur.  
  
Ariadne tried to push past him, to get in, to see for herself, to see if Arthur was there. Eames barred her way, giving her an apologetic but firm smile, “He's not here pet, and you really don't want to see what is.” He gave Cobb a knowing look. Cobb, who'd been taking in the scene with the same professional eye he had, who nodded back at his in agreement and gently lead Ariadne away from this scene of carnage before she lost her remnants belief in the goodness of humanity, which somehow, had survived intact after three years in the extraction business.  
  
One of the bodies groaned, clearly not such a corpse as he looked, and Eames smiled grimly, drawing his gun and went to squat down by the man who was swimming his way gradually towards consciousness. He stroked the barrel of the gun across the man's cheek, the threat implicit, but wasted on the man given his level of lucidity.  
  
“Now, you and me are going to have a little chat and you are going to tell me all about what happened here,” The words were delivered in a low, almost lazy purr, the threat behind them however was implicit even to a someone swimming in pain from a shattered knee, a broken arm and a slash across the chest. He moved the gun down to one of the larger gashes and pushed slightly to emphasise his point.  
  
The man gasped, and started talking, the words spilling out, incoherent but painting a distinct picture for Eames, “... he...that bitch wasn't meant … shouldn't have been able to move... fuck... shouldn't been able... able to fight back. Fucking little bastard...” the rest was lost to intelligible rambles, interspersed with swear words. But he'd heard enough, the scene painted by the warehouse told him the rest.  
  
The gun shot rang out in the silence, startling Yusuf from his study of the chemicals, he glanced briefly at the now dead body then looked swiftly away, as if unwilling to be party to the murder, no execution, the forger had just enacted but also unwilling to protest. Not given with the knowledge he'd gleaned from the bottles he was studying, not given the blood, Arthur's blood, staining them and the needles used.  
  
Eames cursed softly to himself, because it was clear by now that Arthur, beautiful, stubborn, selfish Arthur had given up waiting for his knight in shinning armour to rescue him like any sensible man would and had effectively, efficiently gone about rescuing himself instead.


	4. ?: 29th August, sometime in the am

?: 29th August, sometime in the am  
  
The first thing Arthur becomes aware of as he swims back to consciousness is the smell; damp mildew in the air, with a metallic undercurrent of salt and rust. Resisting the urge to open his eyes immediately, he ensures his breathing steady. He has, through years of dreaming, more than enough practice in waking up without letting any ticks or tells gives his renewed awareness away. There was, after all, no point giving away even a minor advantage to any possible watchers.  
  
He was slumped up against a wall, cold, hard and metallic. He could feel the rough surface through the thin shirt he was wearing, his jacket and waistcoat having disappeared to who-knows-where, and the cold surface leached heat from his body. He shivered almost involuntarily and he could hear a clink as the chain linking his handcuffed wrists moved along with his involuntary movements. He resisted to urge to hold his breath, contenting himself to merely listening out to see if the sound was attracting any attention, but all he could hear was his own breathing and a steady drip drip of water in the distance.   
  
He took a deep breath, and regretted it immediately as sharp shooting pains emanated from his chest, his ribcage specifically. At a guess he would say he had at least two cracked ribs, maybe more. Other pains started making themselves known too, a twisted wrist, probably not broken, an eye swollen shut, no doubt from too many blows to the head, and bruises on pretty much every available surface of skin. After carefully opening his eyes, wincing in reaction to even the dim light in the room, he felt around his mid-section as best he could given the length of chain available to him. No internal bleeding thankfully, but that was about the only good news going. He had to choke back a bitter laugh, it really was a stark testament to his life, that he was so familiar with being shot, stabbed or beaten that he was able tell the extent of the damage through sensations alone.   
  
Looking around, his eyes now open, he took in serroundings. The room was small, barely long enough for a man to lay down full length, with only a single flickering florescent light in the ceiling which did little to chase away the shadows and served predominantly to give him a headache. There were pipes running across the roof and along the sides of the walls, along with strong rivets and handholds at regular intervals. All in all it gave the impression of disused industriality that so often characterised the workspaces of dreamers..   
  
He toyed with the notion that this may be a dream but, even without his totem, Arthur had always had a good sense of reality and this it had little of the feel of a dream. In any case, if this was a dream he would have probably managed to come up with something a bit less filthy.  
  
With nothing else to do, he settled down to contemplate his options for escape, it didn't take him long. The chain seemed pretty solidly attached to a large metal ring higher up the wall with a hefty looking pad-lock. Even if he had something with which to pick the lock, assuming he even could given how rusty his skills in that area where, there was no way for him to actually reach it The chain itself was just long enough to allow him to sit down comfortably, but no where near enough slack to let him get anywhere near the door and the room itself, despite the damp and the rusting walls, was surprisingly clear of any convenient heavy metal objects he could use to attack or overpower any guards. Assuming any of them came at all.   
  
He apparent options boiled down to 'wait for an opportunity to present itself'. It was a good thing that patience was one of Arthur's virtues, no matter how sorely this was tested on many an occasion by a particularly persistent forger.  
  
It took what felt like several hours for the door to the room to open. During this time Arthur had managed to catalogue every single spot of rust on the walls and was just starting on counting the bolts riveted on the walls holding various pipes and vents in place. He was saved from that particularly onerous task by the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside and he drew himself up to standing, stifling a groan as the movement caused stabs of pain to run from his aching, battered body.   
  
The door creaked open and two men come in, they looked like locals, nothing at all like the men who had trailed him through Singapore, in battered jeans and t-shirts. One of them had a crude metal tray in his hands, the other had a gun pointed in his direction. He didn't bother wasting his breath on asking questions, these weren't the ones behind his captivity, these men were clearly the hired help. A fact confirmed by broken English mixed in with what sounded like Thai as the one with the gun tried to communicate with him the importance of not moving from the wall whilst the other placed the tray of food down by his feet.  
  
“I can't eat like this” Arthur told them calmly, not making any move that could be interpreted as a threat. At their bemused looks, he shook the chain, stretching it taunt to show the limited movement length he had. “Please,” he looked up at them with sincerity.   
  
They conferred with each quickly. Definitely Thai, not a language Arthur spoke unfortunately but one he'd heard often enough to distinguish for the other dialects spoken in the region. Despite his lack in linguistic skills, he could guess the argument, letting him starve was clearly not on the menu, but neither was letting him loose. Finally feeding him won out and the gun was pointed pointed directly at him with a heavily accented “No move!”, and the other approached him cautiously, moving to release his cuffed hands from the chain on the wall. Idiots.  
  
He was moving as soon as his wrists were released, throwing himself towards the man with the gun, forcing his arms up. A shot went off, hitting the roof harmlessly, and he was grabbing and twisting the arm holding, a swift blow to the gut and the man was on the floor curled around himself in pain, with the gun now in the point man's very capable hand. The other man, key still in hand, cowered in the corner as soon as the gun was pointed at him. Arthur pushed past him out the room and into an equally dark, narrow and damp corridor. He could hear shouts coming from the room behind him and even without the shot, it was clear that his escape was neither as quiet nor as subtle as he would have preferred..   
  
So Arthur did the only thing he could, he ran, dodging blows and men as he did. Up through tiny corridors, steep stairways and rusting ladders. Bullets pinged around him, going wide, warning shots more than anything else. He ran until he couldn't run any more, and when he stopped he had to bite back a bitter laugh, because looking out in the distance, over the dark and rolling sea, he really should have expected this. He was, it appeared, going nowhere since he was on a fucking boat.   
  
++++  
  
He awoke back in the small room. His arms were not longer chained, though this hardly added to his escape options, it did allow him the opportunity to effectively catalogue any new additions to his collection of bruises. There were in fact surprisingly few, the principal of which was an additional lump on his head where someone had cold-cocked him with the butt of a pistol. It was during his ginger investigation of the bruise, an attempt to ascertain its seriousness, that the door creaked open and a tray was pushed in quickly prior to the slamming of metal and a grinding of bolts indicating that that exit both shut and locked. All he'd managed to see through the doorway was the glint of dim light off guns, a clear indication that they were no longer willing to take any chances with him. He was almost flattered by the level of precautions taken, after all, where would he actually go?  
  
Arthur had no idea how much time he spent in the tiny room, they'd taken from him any ability to tell the hour, or even the day. It was that, more than the bruises, the cracked ribs or the mind-numbing boredom, that was hard to deal with. He tried to tell the time by the drip drip of water, but that gave him the seconds, not the minutes or the hours and he lost track whenever he drifted off into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep. He tried keeping track of the days by the food they delivered, but he had no way of knowing how often that was, once a day, twice maybe but he doubted it, not given the racking hunger pangs he was starting to feel. He picked the lock on his cuffs on the second day, using a sliver of metal from the mangled fork they'd given his to eat with, it didn't help though, the door was barred from the outside and no one came in, not since that first attempt. All he saw of his captors now was the glint of guns and the trays of food sliding in.  
  
It was the fifth time they fed him, the fifth day maybe, that they drugged him. He wasn't certain how he noticed, not given the already foul taste of whatever it was they were feeding him, but something tasted bitter, more so than before. In truth he didn't notice it at first, the hunger was so overwhelming that the strange stew was half gone by the time his taste-buds caught up. He fumbled the bowl and spilling the food on the floor in what he hoped was a convincing manner to avoid eating the rest of it, to avoid indicating that he knew what they were doing. Not that it required that much faking, whatever they had slipped into his food seemed to be working quickly and he was having trouble making his limbs respond to the commands his brain was given them.  
  
Arthur was holding onto awareness by his fingertips when they came through the door. Different from the men who'd brought him food, different still for those who'd chased him down in Singapore, despite the similarity in cheap suits. Part of his mind, strangely detached from proceedings, wondered if they shopped at the same place. He struggled when they grabbed him, but his limbs had long since given up being under voluntary control and felt more like they were made of lead. It was like he was moving underwater, sinking down, unable to get a purchase. He bit out at a hand that reached to cover his man and heard a cursing, as if from far away, before there was the familiar pin-prick of a needle and then nothing.  
  
++++   
  
“It's amazing when you think about it, some of the most impressive pieces of architecture in Europe were built for World Fairs, the Atomium in Brussels, the Eiffel Tower in Paris” she gestured at the building they were standing on and then laughed at herself, “actually those are the only two I can think of. They used to be such a big deal, you never really here of the World's Fair anymore do you?” She smiled at him and then leaned out on the balcony of the upper level of the Eiffel Tower, admiring the cityscape below.   
  
Arthur made a small sound in his throat, not really agreement but she took it as encouragement enough. He half listened as she babbled excitedly about the architecture behind the Tower, how _avant guard_ it was in 1881, nothing quite like it existing anywhere else. He knew all this, of course,, but he let her talk, let the sounds wash over him, a pleasant background noise as he learned over to admire the view below with a small smile. He'd never understood how people could be afraid of heights, to him being up high always made him feel safe, unreachable. Ariadne was not, under most circumstances, the sort of person he would have chosen for a friend, but somehow he enjoyed the other girls company. Her enthusiasm and zest for life, for architecture, for dreaming, was like a breath of fresh air in a profession so filled with jaded souls.   
  
Her curiousity still sometimes got the better of her, but thankfully she had learned from her experience with Cobb, and took the rebuffs to her none-too-subtle enquiries as to his personal life with good grace. Not that there were many, it was apparent that Arthur didn't project the aura of having many dark secrets or a mysterious past. He was, to Ariadne, just plain, boring, reliable, safe Arthur, it was an image he'd worked hard to perfect.  
  
“You're not listening are you?” she had a pout on her face.  
  
“To your speech about the origins of the Atomium, I wasn't listening to a word” he replied drily and then moved out the way as she punched his arm gentle in mock annoyance an indulgent smile threatening to twitch the corners of his mouth.  
  
She went to thread her arm through his, and because he was a gentleman, he let her. Although the gesture somehow didn't feel natural, they'd never been that physically intimate, not really, despite her tentative forays towards intimacy after the Fischer job. He only tuned back into what she was talking about towards the end, and as he did he felt somewhat lost in the conversation, as if there was an important piece he was missing.   
  
“...you're not going to go on a job without me again are you?” She asked, a whine threatening at the edges of her voice. She moved around as she spoke to face him, grabbing his other arm so that both his hands here in hers.   
  
“What are you talking about?” He asked, genuinely confused now, because he took a lot of jobs that didn't involve the young architect. In fact the only real constant in his jobs since Cobb's semi-retirement was Eames, and it was a rare job in dreamscape nowadays where the two would not be found together.   
  
He tried to pull away from her embrace as he spoke, but she move to follow, leaning in to try and capture his lips for a kiss. The move caught him off-guard, and as her lips met his, the first thought that occurred to him was 'How did I get here?'.   
  
He came up blank, a lurching realisation deep inside that this was not reality and he pushed her roughly away from him. Now he was aware of it, the irregularities within the dream became clearer, as if a fog lifting. The strange way Ariadne had been acting, the inconsistencies in the view from the tower, a Paris constructed from imagination not reality. As awareness emerged, his projections turned fast, they always did, his mind militarised as it was even for an extractor, and they descended _en mass_ on Ariadne.   
  
No, not Ariadne, that much was clear as the form flickered under the assault from the projections, revealing a young Asian man before he was ripped to shreds under the onslaught. A forger then. Even as the dream collapsed Arthur couldn't help being somewhat disappointed it took him so long to spot it.  
  
“... and since you oh so usefully got yourself killed and collapsed the dream, I imagine sleeping beauty here should be waking up about now.”Arthur awoke as he always did from a dream, all at once and with little outward sign. But if the heavily accented voice was anything to go by there was little point in keeping up pretence of sleep.   
  
He opened his eyes, taking in the barren surroundings and had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He was handcuffed securely to what must have once been an office chair in a run-down abandoned warehouse. Debris of furniture were strewn around the place and sunlight dripped through cracks in the windows. After the almost timeless nature of the ship's hold he'd been kept in, he was glad to have some outside point of reference to keep track of the time, as crude as it was.   
  
This had to be reality, because no one would make up a dream world which was so horribly clichéd.   
  
The owner of the voice was straddling a chair in front of him and gave him a wide smile when he saw the point man had awoken. “Take it me lad Charlie's dreamscape wasn't to your liking then?” Arthur tried to place to accent as he spoke, Irish definitely, Belfast maybe, he wasn't overly _au fait_ with that part of the world.  
  
“The architecture was passable enough, shame it had to be filled with a second-rate forger,” the point man allowed condescension to drip from every word, because he was in no mood to make it easy for anyone. But in truth, the forger was good, no where close to Eames of course, but good enough. And he had clearly done his research, a fact which was almost more worrying than the rest of the situation put together..   
  
“Aye, I told the lad using the lass wouldn't work, but between you an' me,” the man leaned forward conspiratorially, “I think he had a bit of trouble accepting that the great point man Arthur was a poof.” The forger, the same man he saw in the dream as the disguise failed, scowled at this as he got up from the chair he'd been sleeping in, but was clearly unwilling to say anything to contradict the Irishman's comments. There was no mistaking who was in charge.  
  
Arthur scowled at the term, and responded coldly, “I'm sure he'll get over his disappointment.”  
  
“Touchy, touchy, I'd heard that about you. Boring, predictable, reliable, but oh so good at your job. Tell me Arthur, may I call you Arthur? I'd call you by something more formal but I'm afraid I don't know your last name...” he let the phrase trail off, the question hanging.  
  
“Smith” Arthur answered promptly, and received a backhand for his trouble.  
  
“Now, now Arthur, if you're not going to cooperate, we're going to have some problems you and me.”   
  
Arthur's jaw felt on fire thanks to the beatings he'd received over the previous few days, but he still managed to spit out a dry, “And we were getting on so well.”  
  
The other man ignored that one, continuing instead, “I only have a couple of questions for ya, should be easy for a man of your obvious talents. After you give me what I'm wanting you can go on your merry way and we'll speak no more of this.” Arthur had to repress a snort at that, the lie so obvious given the trouble they'd already gone to get hold of him. “All I want to know is, who hired you for the Quan Son job a year ago, and, of course, absolutely everything you found out from the man.”  
  
Arthur kept his face impassive as he replied, “you must have faulty information, I don't recall a job involving a Quan Son.” Only he did remember it, all too clearly and suddenly he knew he was in even more trouble than before. Because given who the mark was working for and who their, no his, he was the only who'd dealt with them, so his clients were, there was no way they were going to let him walk out of here alive.   
  
He braced himself for a blow that never came, instead his questioner sighed and got up, “Ah I figured you'd go for the hard way still it was worth a try. You see laddie, I know you think you can take what I'm going to throw at you, but I've broken better men than you, and I have all the time in the world on my side. There's no rush after all, so I'll just leave you in the capable hands of my friends here until you change your mind,” he gestured to the guards stationed around the room, the same men in cheap suits who'd dragged him out the ship. He recognised the type, had seen them enough times, both in dreams and out, to know that whatever these men were going to do to him, he was not going to enjoy it.   
  
The light was fading by the time they uncuffed him from the chair and dragged him towards a small cot in the corner of the warehouse. He was barely conscious, every muscles, every bone hurt. The men were, at the very least, professionals, causing the maximum amount of pain for the minimum amount of permanent damage and some part of him almost had to admire that. It wasn't an easy task, whatever the movies would have you think.   
  
Despite Arthur's best efforts it took them barely an hour before they dragged out a cry of pain, and now, hours later, his throat now felt sore from screaming. Through it all the Irishman just watched, not even asking question's, that clearly wasn't the point of this particular exercise, just ensuring that the job was carried out as efficiently and effectively as possible.   
  
Arthur could feel the depths of unconsciousness calling to him, dulling the pain as if smothering him in cotton wool and it was tempting, oh so tempting to give in. But he forced himself to stay awake, bringing himself back to the world of reality and pain, so he could observe his captors. He watched how they were when they thought he was out for the count, watched how the Irishman and Charlie left once the light started fading, how the other guards sat around and played poker, the evening drawing on, their gun holsters ending up draped over the backs of chairs and their eyes glanced over to him at less and less frequent intervals. He watched all that and started trying to plan his escape. It was difficult, his head felt cloudy, unable to focus, the pain distracting him and so eventually, despite his best efforts, he drifted off.   
  
+++++   
  
They're sitting on the kitchen steps sharing a beer, just the two of them, as they've done many times before, an easy friendship born out of years of working together. Arthur watches Cobb smile as he in turn watches his children play. The point man can't help but feel the smile twitch the corner of his mouth too as he does. It's a relief to see his friend is happy again, that the broken, lost man is replaced with something more complete, more relaxed. The Dominic Cobb he first met, who brought him into the grey world of extraction after the country, the Corps, he'd once been so proud to served had decided it wanted nothing more to do with him.   
  
The moment, the dream, is shattered however as soon as Cobb tries to slip an arm around him and Arthur is forced to kill the forger with a kitchen knife to avoid seeing the man with Cobb's face being torn apart by his projections of the extractors own children.  
  
He's back in the warehouse, attached back to the same chair, with the same smiling face in front of him. The smile seems somehow sharper, more vicious this time, or maybe that was just the memory of the enjoyment the other man seemed to take from watching Arthur get beaten to within an inch of his life.  
  
Unlike the point man, 'Charlie' is half choking in the corner as he awakes, trying to get air into his lungs, to even out the breathing. A common reaction of someone unused to dying in their dreams, Arthur on the other hand has had a lot of practice.   
  
The Irishman looked over at his colleague with an edge of amusment before turning back to Arthur. “Ah, laddie, you ever been told you have a vicious little mind in there?” he asked conversationally.  
  
And Arthur can't help but retort back, “It's been mentioned once or twice.”  
  
The Irishman snorted, “you see, me and Charlie have a bit of a bet going on. I say I can break you first out here, in the real world an' all, he thinks the dreams are going to have a better go.” Even as he said it, Arthur knew it was a lie.   
  
He recognised the technique they were using, he could see in his mind how the next few days would pan out. Pain in reality, moments of joy and comfort in the dream. It was an old trick, an effective one even, especially, against trained minds. Make the real world so horrifying, so painful, that the mind _wants_ the dream to become reality, it starts doing all the hard work for you until the mind is losses itself voluntarily in the dream, all thoughts of reality lost and secrets free for all to see. It takes time, but eventually everyone breaks, Arthur just hoped he would have the chance to escape before that moment came from him.   
  
“What no comment on how we're doing, I'm disappointed in you. So, you going to save me having to get the boys to work you over again and tell me what I want to know or are we going to have a repeat of yesterday?” The Irishman asked with the air of one who already knew the answer and so didn't seem particularly surprised when Arthur told him to kindly fuck off.   
  
They'd given up on the fists this time and had moved on to knotted ropes and belts, occasionally the Irishman would ask him a question during the proceedings, but it seemed a formality more than anything, something to do to pass the time in between the blows and the screams. Arthur could feel welts building up on his back from where they'd broken the skin, blood making the tattered remnants of his shirt stick to his back. It was a painfully familiar feeling, evoking memories of childhood home, dark rooms and muffled cries where no one could see. .   
  
He waiting until the Irishman had gone and the men were settled into their poker game before he set to work, fingers moving clumsily from the manacles and the pain, trying to work free the small spring of metal from one of the joints of the cot. He'd noticed it yesterday, a testament to the beds poor construction and a godsend for a desperate man looking for a lock-pick. It took him most of the evening, drifting in and out of awareness, born by the pain, but eventually he got it free. A final effort to tuck it in between the folds of canvas on the cot, secreting it away before exhaustion overcame him.   
  
++++   
  
He wakes up slowly, languidly. The bed underneath him was soft and Arthur wanted nothing more than to bury himself back into the cocoon of blankets and pillows he'd made for himself during the night. Would have too if not for the kisses being pressed up his spine, the oh-so-familiar scratch of stubble across his back. He turned around contently and moved forward to capture Eames in a kiss.   
  
“Morning, love” the forger purred once they'd pulled away for air, “I took the liberty of ordering room service,” he said in between kisses along his jaw and around his throat. With a final brief kiss on the lips, Eames moved away from the bed, towards the laden trolley, filled to the brim with coffee, tea, plates of bacon, eggs and bowels of oatmeal. Arthur pulled himself up in bed, lazily watching the other man move around the cart. He was wearing loose linen shirt, boxers and little else, it looked good on him, more stylish than his usual riot of colour and clash of fabrics, but still more than he would usually wear on a lazy morning. Possibly he was learning to avoid traumatising the hotel staff when they delivered to the room, one could hope after all.  
  
He was admiring the planes of his lovers body as the other man walked back towards the bed, coffee cluched out in one hand, the other held behind his back. Arthur reached out to grab the coffee off him, but the other man moved it away with a grin, forcing the point man to sit up properly, moving forwards to grab it off him. As he did so, the forger moved forwards to capture his lips as he did so, before finally relinquishing the cup of coffee.   
  
Arthur gave his a playful glare, “Never stand between a man and his morning coffee.”  
  
“I shall try to remember that in future darling.” he replied with a grin before laying down besides him on the bed, lazily watching him drink.   
  
It was only once the coffee was down the final dregs that Eames leaned over to take the cup off him smiling as he said, “Now I'm not risking life and limb by separating you from your caffeine,” he moved his other hand around, the one which had been until now hiding behind his back. It took Arthur a moment to notice what he was holding out to him, his attention otherwise engrossed the curve of his neck, the small v of flesh peeking out between the shirt, a hint of a tattoo sneaking out between the material.   
  
He was surprised when he did see what the other man was holding out in front of him and he frowned as he took the rose off him. “What's this for?”  
  
Eames pulled back with a bemused smile at his reaction, “I love you of course.”   
  
Arthur went cold, memory rushing back. He calmly reached behind him, to the gun he always kept under his pillow, no matter where they were staying, and shot the fake Eames between the eyes. He took a moment to look at the other man's corpse, looking at the coiling snake tattoo visible even under the shirt, the tattoo which was unknown to him despite the hours spent mapping the other man's body in exquisite detail. Satisfied he hadn't made a mistake, he lifted the gun to his own head.  
  
“Not the romantic type then is your boy?” The Irishman had commented afterwards, crouching down to where Arthur was lying on the floor, the chair haven fallen over at some point during the afternoon, and whilst Arthur was desperately trying to get air back into his lungs in between his cries of pain. The Irishman had a nasty, knowing smile on his face that caused a coil of dread to appear in Arthur's chest, because if nothing else, it had shown them where his affections lay.  
  
It was the memory of that smile that got him moving that evening, after the Irishman had left and the guards had settled down either to their poker game. Despite the pain, the aches in his hands and his overly uncooperative fingers, he nonetheless managed to ease of the make-shift lockpick out from the canvas and set to work. He went to work first on his wrists and there were several instants where he almost dropped the lockpicks, his fingers seemed to lack any sort of co-ordination and it took him far too long the get them open. Before curling in on himself, as if in pain, a reaction not entirely faked, so as to disguise his attempts to remove the manacles around his ankles  
  
Eventually he did so managed it and he slowly uncurled, chancing a look up at his tormentors. He tried to judge the distance between his cot and the table they were playing poker on and more to the point the chairs over which they had casually slung the guns. It would be more of a gamble than he was comfortable with, but even the chance to success was something to grab at. He gingerly sat up, taking care not to cause a sound, not to draw their attention to him. He managed to suppress a hiss of pain as he did so and held his breath, but no, they were still playing poker, oblivious to his movements. Bracing himself, he launched up towards the table. Or at least that was what he tried to do, but his limbs were like lead, his legs failing respond to the signals his brain were trying to give them and he crashed to the ground.   
  
“Didn't I forget to tell you laddie,” the Irishman told him later, whilst breaking his foot in retaliation for the attempt, “we've been giving you a special something just to stop you doing stupid things like trying to escape. Think you'll find your weak as a kitten, so best to stop trying eh?” But at that point Arthur had stopped listening to him, his vision going black from the pain of the bones in his foot grinding together.   
  
++++  
  
Eames was pushing Arthur up against the wall as he attempted to suck his lungs out through his mouth. There was no pretence of gentleness in the act, this was a battle for dominance pure and simple. Hot and hard and the point man gave back as good as he got.   
  
But then it turned wrong, the touches got harder and cruel. Holding him in ways that Arthur could never stand, in ways that Eames never do, not after that one time in which drink and hot tempers had resulting in a near dislocated jaw. And certainly not with everything he seemed to understand about Arthur without needing to be told.   
  
Arthur pushed away from the grasp, twisting the arm holding him until he heard a satisfying crack before throwing the fake Eames through a window of the penthouse suite that had been dreamed up for the occasion.   
  
“Rough but not to rough then laddie?” The Irishman had commented later on, as the other men dragged Arthur's head up out the water for air, before forcing him under again. Arthur telling him to fuck off had by this point become a formality.  
  
It seemed however that their forger was a quick learner, because the next time it was only once they were lying together, entwined in bed, Arthur's fingers tracing the inked lines on Eames' back, that the awareness of the dream came to him. He trailed his fingers up tattoos that shouldn't have been there, over empty spaces on his shoulders, bereft of the swirls and figures the characterised his lover, up towards the neck. His fingers closed around the windpipe, crushing it and as the man was suffocated he had the satisfaction of seeing the form flicker into the now familiar shape of Charlie before he died.   
  
They were trying out electricity today, Arthur's muscles continued to shake and tremble even after they had dumped him back on the cot. The Irishman knelt down besides the cot, stroking his hair in a parody of gentleness and Arthur wanted nothing more than to be able to move, to bat the hand away but his muscles had ceased responding hours ago. He felt an almost perverse resentment that the man had changed the routine of the previous few days, throwing him off balance.  
  
“Now, me and Charlie are going to have to go away for a couple of days, business you see. But don't worry, laddie, we'll leave you in my friends capable hands. Picked this lot up in prison see, they spent a lot of time there figuring out how much pain they can cause, you can of course appreciate their handiwork. They also got a bit of a taste for the pretty boys, well any boy really if they screamed loud enough. I told em they couldn't have their fun during working hours, but seems like this is going to be the week-end, so they can let loose.” He gave Arthur the news in a conversational tone and it took the point man a few seconds for his mind to catch up with exactly what he was implying.   
  
“Still not up for talking then laddie?” he asked and Arthur barely managed to spit out a curse at him, his throat raw from screaming and his jaw muscles clenched so tight he could feel his teeth grinding. “Ah, pity. Oh well, I'll be giving you an extra dose before we go, don't want a repeat performance of before now do we.” The last sensation Arthur remembered before the blackness reached up to claim him was the prick of the needle and a heaviness flooding his limbs.  
  
++++  
  
Arthur had always prided himself on his memory, his attention to details, the little things that others missed. It was what made him a good point man. Maybe that was why what he remembered most from that 'week-end' was the scuffs on the men's shoes, the cracks in the window opposite the table where they'd tied him down or the drip of rainwater from the drains outside. He remembered struggling too, to begin with, but true to the Irishman's word the drug seemed to have removed all control he had over his body. It didn't remove the sensations however, the pain, the humiliation. No, it was his mind which detached him from that, focusing, of all things, on the number of cracks in the window, twelve, or the number of drips of water, an average of five drips a minute..  
  
He almost felt glad to wake up handcuffed to the chair again, the Irishman's grinning face in front of him. 'Maybe that was the point of the exercise,' the clinical part of his mind, the one which had counted drips of water, supplied. “Enjoy your week-end did you laddie?” Arthur had to suppress a flinch, and tried to turn it into a glare instead. He suspected by the other man's smile that he wasn't very successful.  
  
“Got another little surprise for you since you enjoyed the last one so much.”   
  
“You...” Arthur croaked then spat, and how did his throat end up quite so bruised. He tried again, “You shouldn't have.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it conveyed the message.  
  
That smile again, cruel, vicious, knowing. “Now, now, that's no way to treat someone who's brought you a playmate.” It was only then that Arthur realised there was someone else there, a figure handcuffed to the chair, same as him, in a perfect mirror.  
  
“Eames...” he managed to find his voice to protest, struggling to keep it strong, calm, no hint of a waiver, “He doesn't know anything, he never deals with clients. Let him go.”  
  
“You're missing the point laddie, he's not here to talk, he's here to get you to talk,” as he spoke the forger seemed to be regaining consciousness, groaning as he did so, “course, since as ye say, the boy doesn't know anything, don't need to be so careful keeping him alive now do I?” With that he pulled out a knife, slicing through the buttons on the Brits shirt, exposing his bare, vulnerable chest, a dark red line of blood welling up where the knife had been..  
  
It was too bare. The dark swirl of a tattoo which should have been covering his left pectoral was missing, as were the hints of Latin script further down by the waistline. Arthur had to stop himself from breathing out a sigh of relief at the realisation that this was not real, that Eames was probably still safe and sound in London and that the man being tortured was nothing more than a fake, or a projection.  
  
It didn't make it easy to endure though, the screams of pain, the the cries of “Arthur, love, please” as the other man's skin was sliced open piece by piece and he had bite his tongue to stop himself from crying out for them to stop, blood filling his mouth as he did. It was only when the other forgers' form started to flicker from the pain the Irishman stopped, a noise of disgust in his throat before drawing out his gun and putting both of them out of their misery.  
  
The days seemed to flow into each other, with little way to tell the passage of time except through the gradation in light filtering through the dirty cracked windows. Hours of imaginative and inventive ways to cause extreme pain whilst avoiding long-term damage, the same questions over and over again, the same reply from the point man, or at least variations on the theme, there were only so many ways you could tell someone to go fuck themselves, so Arthur rotated them for variety.   
  
In a detached part of Arthur's mind, he almost admired their professionalism, they knew what they were doing in causing pain, they knew more what they were doing with the dreams, the hours of pain punctuated by dreams of charged, joyful moments lying in Eames' embrace. The scenery changed each time, the scenarios were different, but they always ended the same, Arthur peeling away the layers of clothing to reveal the ever-changing tattoos on the fake Eames' chest. It was as good as a totem the one thing consistently differentiating between dream and reality, the one thing keeping him from sinking into the dreams and giving up his secrets.  
  
It seemed as if the Irishman had come up with his own explanation for why the dreams kept on failing to take, and he leaned conspiratorially over Arthur one day to share it with him, “I reckon the reason our lad Charlie t'aint as good in bed as you boy is his a bit homophobic. Bit of a shite trait in a forger really. But don't you worry, soon enough even Charlie's piss poor attempts at a blowjob will seem like heaven compared to what I'm doing to ya on the outside.”   
  
Arthur couldn't help but think he was right. He could feel his will slipping every time he went under and it was only clinging onto the certain knowledge that giving them what they wanted would result in his death, in never seeing his true lover, never tracing the real tattoos that swirled over his body, that kept him going. Trouble was, he wasn't certain how much longer it would be before death really did start seeming like the preferable option to his current existence.  
  
After what felt like a lifetime, but, if the light changes were anything to go by must only have been five or six days, the Irishman left again. “Going to have me a bit of a week-end off, methinks. Don't worry, I'll bring you back something special” he'd thrown over his shoulder at him as he'd departed through the warehouse doors. The threat might have been more effective if the man wasn't leaving him to a nightmare far worse than any of the methods of dealing pain he'd so far concocted.   
  
It was the details, always the details, he remembered. His mind's own special way to numb him from reality, the little things he noticed even as he shied away from remember the big things. Like what was happening to him, no to his body, not him.   
  
He'd moved on from cracks in windows and instead had started to catalogue the lax security practices the men seem to have gotten into during their 'down time'. Guns lying discarded, near enough to grab, ropes loosely attached, over-confident in the drugs ability to prevent movement, drinking, celebrating, over-confident in their victims helplessness. All things he could exploit, but not in his drugged up state, not with the sedative in his veins trapping him in his own body, making him as weak as a kitten. Somehow contemplating escape options he had no way, no ability to take was almost worse than the violation of his body he was using said contemplations to try and distract himself from. Almost.  
  
++++  
  
The Irishman was true to his word, he did bring back a surprise, a particularly unpleasant one. Hallucinogens.   
  
They caused dreams to turn into nightmares, horrific visions of death and destructions or bright mad worlds filled with colour and joy. They causes the tattoos on the forged Eames' chest to swim and mutate into strange and unexpected shapes. Worse was their impact on the warehouse, causing walls to bleed and objects to twist and a sick blending reality with dreaming until Arthur could barely tell which was which. He had to remind himself to focus on the ever-changing tattoos on his lovers body, the keep hold on the only indicator of reality he had left, even as he wanted nothing more than to embrace the dream of Eames presence, be it the passionate interlude in some nameless hotel or the forgers arrival like a knight in shinning armour to rescue him from the hell that was his every waking hour. Every day he could feel his mind starting to slip further and further away, his control broken, shot to hell and it was that more than anything which terrified him.   
  
He vowed to himself to make one last bid for freedom, one last attempt during from which either success or death were the only possible outcomes. And he believed he knew how. The hallucinogens for all their terrifying properties, had one distinct side-effect, an advantage he could almost love them for. They negated to effect of the sedative they'd been pumping him full of, giving him a strength back to his body he hadn't felt for weeks, despite the pain, the hunger and the fever setting in from too many untreated, infected wounds. He just had to keep his mind intact, held together by spit and hope, until the Irishman left, until the guard became complacent and the opportunity was there.   
  
Somehow putting that idea into practice seemed far more difficult that it had any right to be.  
  
++++  
  
The Irishman knew he was winning, that much was clear. He seemed almost regretful when he waved Arthur good-bye on the fifth day, keeping to his schedule like clockwork. Arthur barely noticed, he was curled up in the corner, trying to convince himself that the tingling, crawling sensations all up his arms were just a by-product of the drugs, not the result of thousands of tiny spiders crawling all over him, under what was left of his clothes and into his mouth and eyes.   
  
It was only once the other men started dragging him over to the table, divesting themselves of belts and holsters as they did so, that Arthur regained some semblance of reality. The knowledge of what needed to be done gave him a sharpness of thought he hadn't realised he'd lost, cutting through the fog of pain that had covered his mind and dulled his senses. He knew exactly what he had to do, he just hoped his battered body would be able to do it.  
  
He used his injuries to his advantage, stumbling over his broken foot, the stab of sharp pain helping to focus him even as the movement caused the two men dragging him to loosen their grip slightly, trying for a better hold. It was all he needed, a sharp jab with his elbow caught the man on his left in the groin and Arthur took considerable satisfaction from the cry of pain that emanated from the man. The pain from his own body was dulled now, supplanted by the adrenaline flooding his senses and the knowledge that this was his last, final chance. He twisted as his left arm was let go, the man more concerned with trying to breath through the pain in his groin than keeping hold of the point man, and he yanked his right arm out of the second man's grasp reaching for the gun in his loosened, low-hanging shoulder holster as he did so.   
  
He shot him as he fell away, a gut shot guaranteeing a long, slow death. He sent a second bullet towards the one with the groin injury for good measures before rolling to come up in a crouch, seeking another target. He felt more than heard a man come up behind him and he twisted out the way, kicking back with his uninjured leg feeling a sense of satisfaction as he heard a crack from the others ribs. A movement to his right and he whirled, his shot catching one of the guards even as he reached down to pick up his own gun. He shot him again for good measure, before catching his companion as he came out from the small kitchen at the back of a warehouse, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.   
  
He kept moving, despite the pain in his foot, in his ribs, hell in his whole body, knowing that his only chance was surprise, that standing still would result in his untimely and no doubt very painful death. He dived behind one of the now upturned tables for cover, knocking over the hated tray of chemicals over as he did so. He heard bullets slam into the wood, two guns from the sound of it. He waited until they went to reload, emptying their clips far too quickly given the lack of effect, and it was clear that as professional as they were about inflicting pain, they were unaccustomed to someone who could shoot back. He didn't give them a chance to learn the correct procedure. shooting them both as they tried to reload, barely even seeking out their own cover as they did so.   
  
It was all over in what could not have been more than a few minutes, the only sound left in the warehouse his own harsh breathing. He could already feel the adrenaline start to recede and the pains all over start to make themselves known. Spots danced in front of his eyes, visual artefacts left over from the last of the hallucinogens and he knew he had to get out of here before the pain started to overwhelm him again.   
  
He ran, or tried to, limping away from the scene as fast as his broken body would carry him, trying desperately to find a bolt hole, somewhere, anywhere he could go to ground and let himself heal. His only thought as he ran, repeated over and over again,a mantra as if it could convince his mind of the truth, was 'let this be reality'.   
++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for the tattoos came after seeing a pic of Tom Hardy topless. The man has a lot of ink, alas I have no idea what all the tattoos are, so the tattoos as described probably have little to do with those Tom has in real life. On the other hand, since we've never seen Eames topless on screen, I think I'm allowed a bit of poetic license.


	5. Bangkok: 25th September, 6:03pm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm perfectly willing to admit I Did Not Do The Research on either the medical side or Bangkok, so I have tried to keep both vague. Next time I shall ensure to base a fic somewhere I actually know.

Eames - Bangkok: 25th September, 6:03pm  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck,” Eames stormed out the warehouse, pushing past a curious Ariadne and a worried Cobb. He wasn't certain whether to laugh or cry, so he settled instead for cursing and violence.  
  
“Fuck,” he kicked a large dumpster, hearing the satisfying metal clang as he did so.  
  
“Fuck,” he punched the wall, taking comfort in the pain shooting up his arm.  
  
In fact, the feeling was so satisfying, he did it again, beating the wall with both fists, a litany of curses with each strike until his hands felt as raw as he heart. It took several moments for him to realise that Cobb was calling to him and he whirled on him, seeking an outlet for his anger.  
  
“You! This is your fault, if we'd have gotten to him earlier, done the job as soon as we had the lead instead of waiting three days this wouldn't have happened.” He was being unreasonable, he knew it, he didn't care. He expected, hoped even, that Cobb would shout back, defend himself, retaliate, give him an excuse to get in a fight.   
  
Cobb didn't, merely saying his name again, hands out in what was no doubt meant to be a placating gesture, “Eames!”  
  
He punched him anyway. It felt satisfying, he tensed, ready for the retaliation, wanting it so bad he could almost taste it. But Cobb, the bastard, doesn't. Instead, he rubs his jaw where the fist had landed and took a couple of steps back before saying, in that same calm, sympathetic voice. “Have you got that out your system now or do you need another go?” Eames looked back at him and it was as if a dam had broken, all the anger, the tension, the wound up anticipation over the possibility that this finally might be where they found Arthur, left him in an instant.   
  
He went to sit down on the nearest solid surface, a crate in this case, his legs barely able to support him and shakily pulled a cigarette out of the packet. Cobb was still looking at him with those sympathetic, worried eyes, worried for him, worried for Arthur and he had to look away, fumbling with the lighter using fingers that no longer seemed to work the right way.  
  
And the extractor is kneeling in front of his, his own lighter, a cheap tacky thing, held lit in front of him and Eames is somehow absurdly grateful because its clear that there is no way he could light the cigarette on his own. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled, a soft, “fuck” muttered under his breath.  
  
“Better now?” Cobb is talking to him and it takes him a few moments to bring him back together enough to concentrate on the words, “We need you Eames, I need you, _Arthur_ needs you, but you need to pull yourself together. You're no use to anyone, least of all him, like this.”  
  
Eames nodded shakily at that, his mind already half supplying the dry, though somehow still caring, commentary that Arthur would have provided if he saw him fall apart like this. He nodded again, almost visibly pulling himself together, and turns back towards the others. Ariadne is doing her best to look away, to pretend her attention is entirely taking up by the crude graffiti on the warehouse wall, whilst Yusuf appears to be fidgeting with one of the bottles which had been scattered around the floor, something clearly on his mind.   
  
Plastering on a nonchalant smile as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't all just watched him almost fall apart. Luckily he's saved from having to say anything by Ariadne, which was a good thing, because he didn't think right now he'd have much of a chance of getting anything out without his voice cracking.   
  
“So... what now?” she's directing the question at Cobb but she's looking straight at him, so he decided to try and answer the question anyway.   
  
“Now we try and find the stupid sod before he gets into any more trouble,” he was almost proud that he managed to get the sentence out with barely even a waiver at the end.  
  
++++  
  
Finding Arthur took considerably longer than Eames would have liked. Despite the fact that the evidence from the warehouse pointed very distinctly towards the point man being severely injured, tortured Eames' treacherous mind supplied, and based on the drug vials found, quite likely both delirious and heavily sedated. Despite even the traces of blood leading out from the industrial area before trailing off somewhere once they reached run-down high rises and almost shanty town constructions of wood and iron. Arthur it would appear had very effectively gone to ground.  
  
It shouldn't have necessarily been surprising, he had, after all, spent various parts of his career as a soldier, a spy and, briefly, a mercenary long before before he got into the extraction business. Arthur wasn't just good in the real world _as well_ as the dreamscape, he was the best in the dreamscape _because_ of his abilities in the waking world. When Arthur choose to go to ground, even the hounds of hell couldn't drag him out.  
  
Of course the hounds of hell didn't know the man even a fraction as well as Eames did. No one did, not even Cobb, not that he would normally expect the other man to admit this.   
  
Which was why he was pleasantly surprised when, an hour after the blood trails had run out and the questioning of the locals had lead to nothing, and the blond extractor had proclaimed that, “This is getting us nowhere, we can't follow a trail that doesn't exist. We need to figure out where Arthur is likely to go,” he had looked directly towards the British forger for answers.  
  
Eames barely needed to think about the reply, Arthur was nothing if not consistent when hiding. Oh, the locations changed and finding him was never easy, but the basic characteristics remained the same. ”As high up as he can get whilst still keeping an escape route.” he said easily, “our dear point man has a bit of a thing for heights, never understood why.” Which was a lie, because Arthur had once told him about the treehouse he and his brother had built in the backyard, high up in the branches where none of the adults would climb. It was pretty much the only thing the man had told him about his childhood, and that was hardly surprising. People with happy childhoods didn't, as a rule, end up in professions like theirs.  
  
He looked around, dismissing at once of low-slung slums and half-built houses. Their mazes of alleyways and hideyholes may have been the logical choice, but if Yusuf's conclusions as to Arthurs state of mind were correct, they could hardly count on him feeling rational. Rather he looked towards the taller crumbling brick buildings, cheap housing clearly put up for port workers in a by-gone era, which clustered together with narrow streets and even narrower alleyways in between. Further for the injured man to run, but also further from the site of captivity. It was, now he was looking for it, obvious that was where the point man would run to feel safe.   
  
Despite the certainty of the point man's general location, it still took them hours to track the man down, so much so that Eames started to doubt his own certainty, his own knowledge of the other man. Eventually however, after endless questioning in broken English and Cantonese, not to mention the universal language of the dollar, they get a possible location, a local gesticulating towards a large, crumbling building. Although smaller than some of the other high-rises, older too, a rickety fire escape was visible running along the outside, and it is clear that this additional means of escape would have attracted the point man to this building over the others. The boarded up windows, the still dark rooms despite the night's gloom, and nailed over doorways also indicated that whatever residents the building did have, it was unlikely they were living there officially.  
  
The inside of the building looked even more decrepit than the outside. It was clear that the owners, when they had boarded the place up and left it to rot, had gone through haphazardly removing anything they thought could be of value. Even the doors had been removed, either then or later, and most the rooms leading off the main corridor appeared to have only curtains to give a semblance of privacy. The residents themselves were equally as mixed, whole families in threadbare clothing with the pinched faces of the terminally hungry cowered in corners alongside skeletal junkies, flamboyant lady-boys, hardened prostitutes and orphaned children, all often one and the same person. None of them however appeared willing to mess with the armed, well-dressed foreigners who had invaded their dwelling.   
  
Eames ignored the lower levels, moving further up, towards the top of the building, towards where Arthur would feel safe. It appeared that his hunch was correct as he spotted a flash of pale skin on the stairs leading up to the top floor, and the glint of a gun. He barely managed to throw himself out the way as a shot rang out, splintering the wall besides him. He could hear the others running up the stairs towards the shot and he gestured for them to stop, even as the scrabbling on the stair above him indicated that Arthur, please god let it be Arthur, was doing the same. No doubt heading towards the nearest window and the attached fire escape leading out from the top floor.   
  
He called out, “Arthur! It's us.” He resisted adding, 'it's me', because he wasn't the hero of some trashy romance. Instead, he tried to keep his voice calm, reassuring despite the pounding in his heart, “We're here to help you.” The movement above him stopped, and all he could hear was his own heavy breathing. He decided to chance it.  
  
“I'm coming up the stairs now, I'd appreciate it if you didn't shot me, eh love, you know how difficult it is to get blood stains out and this really is my best shirt.” It was too, Arthur had bought it for him for his birthday last year. Carefully he climbed the stairs, keeping his hands visible so as to avoid startling the other man and causing him to shot at him again, or worse, run out the window and down the fire escape which was in no state to take even a man like Arthur's weight.   
  
No shot came, although he could hear the other man's footsteps as he climbed, retreating to keep a safe distance, to keep his vantage point in case needed. It wasn't until he got to the top of the stairs, pushing aside the thin curtain which offered an illusion of privacy to those within that Arthur eventually spoke.“Take your shirt off,” he ordered, an almost imperceptible crack underlying the otherwise confident tone. He was standing at the back of the room, close to the window, as expected, and the rickety, broken down fire escape outside.  
  
Eames wondered briefly if the other man had taken his quip about the shirt too literally. “I know I'm irresistible, darling,” he replied lightly, gently, anything to avoid startling to other man, “but surely this isn't the quite the time or the place for this sort of thing.” Despite his words he complied with the request, because Arthur had a gun, and in Eames' experience you always did what desperate and halfway delirious men with guns said, it avoided a lot of pain for both sides.  
  
Almost as soon as he'd finished pulling his shirt off, Arthur was moving forward, next to him, right up into his personal space but not touching, never touching. Instead he appeared to be tracing the tattoos spread liberally around the forger's body, fingers ghosting over his shoulder, moving down towards his chest. The gun in his left hand dangled loosely by his side, but Eames made no move to take it, nothing which could break the intense almost reverent look of concentration on his lover's face.   
  
Instead, whilst Arthur focused his attention on the ink liberally spread across his chest, detailing memories of misspent youth and an even more wayward adulthood, Eames took the opportunity to inspect him in turn.   
  
He looked like hell, bruises, scratches and cuts covering every inch of exposed skin, and probably more underneath, many of which looked angry and red with infection. Always thin, Eames now reckoned he could count individual ribs from underneath the tattered remnants of his shirt and the trembling of his limbs bore testament to the effort he was expending just to keep standing. But worse, worse was the look in his eyes which told the forger in no uncertain terms that the man was near breaking point, jagged edges of pain and hurt bleeding through, his composure held together merely by willpower and hope.   
  
Eames was beginning to wish that some of the men from the warehouse were still alive, so he could have the pleasure of killing them again, slowly.  
  
Almost instinctively, he went to raise his arms, to encircle Arthur, as much to reassure himself as the other man but he aborted the movement as soon as he saw the barely suppressed flinch from the point man at even the suggestion of a touch. Instead, he left his arms by his side and allowed Arthur to continue his exploration at his own pace, all the while swearing undying revenge against all those involved in the other man's abduction, starting with Carnhain.  
  
After what felt like an age, Arthur finally looked at him, eyes tracing the lines of his face even as he rested his arms on the forgers broader shoulders. “You're real” he stated factually but undercut with a tinge of wonder.  
  
“Yes love, I am,” Eames smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Taking care to ensure that the other man saw the movement, he again attempted to raise his arms, to mirror the hands resting on his own shoulders and reassure both of them that he was real, he was safe. This time, the point man let him, though the tension thrumming through the man was palpable underneath his hands.  
  
“This is reality” the same factual statement, the same tinge of wonder.  
  
“Yes love, it is.” and Eames almost breathed a sigh of relief, because Arthur wasn't going to be another Mal, unable to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, never truly believing in the waking world.  
  
“And the ants?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking and there was a shudder running through his frame.   
  
Eames looked around the small run down room. Despite the dirty, fetid conditions, he couldn't see any sign of ants. “What ants would that be pet?”  
  
Arthur shuddered again, “the ones crawling all over my body.”  
  
“No love, they're not real.” Yusuf had warned them that the point man may still be perceiving hallucinations, visual artefacts that weren't really there.  
  
Arthur seemed to contemplate the answer for a few seconds, before nodding and almost perceptibly relaxing, “Good.” He then collapsed in Eames arms. He did it in the way the point man did everything, gracefully and oh so composed. So much so that it took Eames a couple of moments to realise that the other man had actually lost consciousness.  
  
++++  
  
Bangkok, 26th September, 5.24am  
  
The clinic was expensive, exclusive and oh so private, another favour from Saito of course, and Eames wonders if they're close using up all the favours the businessman owed them. Money can buy a lot of things, especially silence, but all the money in the world it seemed wasn't able to remove the hospital smell from the visitors room where the three of them waited anxiously for news on Arthur's condition. Yusuf had left soon after they had arrived, all anxious glances and pleading look as he tried to make them understand how much he hated hospitals, hated the waiting, extracting instead a promise to call him as soon as they heard anything. Eames had known the man long enough to know that by now he was probably in his hotel room, crawling deep into a bottle and trying to forget what he'd seen today, trying to convince himself that all would be well when he woke up.  
  
Eames wished he could have that luxury, wanted nothing more than to do the same, probably surprised Cobb by not doing so in fact. It was after all his usual way of dealing with things and it would not have been out of character. But Eames was self-aware enough to know that there wasn't an alcohol on earth strong enough to make him forget, not today, not until he _knew_ the other man was going to be alright. So instead he paced, and he smoked, escaping the small waiting room with its surprisingly comfortable chairs and high-class selection of magazines, to perch on a wall outside, and fill his lungs with nicotine.   
  
His second pack was lying crumpled by his feet, the final cigarette turning to ash in his fingers, bitter hospital coffee cooling in the cup besides him, when Cobb comes out. The blond man doesn't really need to say anything, the look is enough and Eames is jumping off the wall he is perched on and heading inside before the he can even open his mouth.   
  
The doctor, a Dr Song according to his name tag, is a sympathetic middle aged Chinese man and he waits patiently for Eames to take a seat next to a previously dozing Ariadne, face now alert and sharp with worry, before he begins.   
  
When he starts, his voice is calm and professional, but not unkind, reading from the file with a clear label of T. Williams. Eames had chosen the false name, remembering the conversation he'd had with his sister all those weeks ago, and despite a bemused look, Cobb had gone along with it. “Firstly, allow me to assure you that the despite the extensive nature of Mr Williams injuries, with the correct treatment we would expect him to make a full recovery.” Eames let out a breath then he didn't realise he'd been holding at that, relief flooding through him, his only thought that Arthur was going to alright, that he was safe.   
  
He barely managed to bring his attention back as the doctor continued, detailing Arthur's injuries in a calm clinical tone, “Mr Williams has considerable bruising and lacerations on almost all parts of his body, dating back we would estimate up to four weeks ago,” Eames could see Cobb nodding a that, almost imperceptible, it fit the timeline from when Arthur had disappeared, “we'd expect these to heal with time, although I am somewhat worried about some of the bruising around the eyes and throat and we will have to keep an eye on this to ensure there is no permanent damage to either his eyes or larynx.” The doctor continued in much the same vein, the list of injuries bearing testament to the torment inflicted on the point man during the time of captivity. Cracked ribs, broken foot, and the most worrying, badly infected cuts and lacerations covering his back and ribcage, caused by a variety of instruments and methods.   
  
“Can we see him?” Ariadne asked tentatively once the list was done, breaking the stunned silence and sometime during the doctors speech, Cobb's arms had come up around her, embracing her and offering comfort.   
  
“Of course. He is currently sedated so we could reset his foot, and we would not expect him to wake for several hours but if you will follow Ms San,” he pointed to a petite nurse who was standing just behind him, “she will take you to his room.”  
  
As Eames moved to file out past him, he cleared his throat gently, “Mr Roberts,” he said, using Eames current alias, “if you have a moment.” he gestured back to the chair Eames had just vacated.  
“I understand you and Mr Williams are in a relationship.” he said it matter of factly and it took Eames a moment to remember how he'd insisted on noting himself down as next of kin on the forms when signing him in.  
  
“Yes, he's my …” he had to search a moment for the right term to describe what Arthur was to him, 'boyfriend' seemed too childish, 'lover' too intimate given the setting, “partner” he finally settled on and the term still seemed inadequate however.  
  
The doctor paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to broach the subject, “I... would normally not be willing to discuss this without the patients express permission, but given the circumstances and your relationship, I feel it is important that you are aware.” he cleared his throat nervously before continuing, trying to keep his tone clinical, “The bruising around Mr Williams throat and the tearing around his anus and internally are consistent with subjected to forceful penetrative sex.”  
  
Eames felt as if he had been punched, but somehow he kept his voice calm as he asked, “You're saying that he was raped?”   
  
He saw the doctor flinch back slightly, some of the anger he was feeling clearly showing through in his words, but somehow managed to meet his eyes as he continued. “By more than one individual and on possibly multiple occassions, yes.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” he added, his tone remained sympathetic and Eames wondered how he could be so calm, so nice whilst describing something so horrific. “We have conducted a number of blood tests, in case of infection, however of course the symptoms of some may not be apparent for another three months.” It was obvious to what he was referring to and the forger felt sick at the thought.  
  
There was nothing else really to say and Eames left the visitors room numbly, making his way towards Arthur's room, following the doctors quietly murmured directions. His heart almost stopped when he saw the point man lying there, looking so uncharacteristically small and vulnerable underneath all the bandages, the machinery and IV lines.   
  
He pushed past Ariadne and Cobb, ignoring their questioning stares, heading up to the bedside and, after taking a few moments to really look at him, carefully brushed a lock of hair off his forehead where it had fallen down. “Oh love,” he murmered, pressing a kiss on his forhead where his hand had just been.   
  
He left Arthur there, now he knew he was safe. Left him sleeping and went to get horrendously, horrifically drunk, anything to try and drown out the pain, the recriminations for what had happened. He knew he was running away from the problem and he vowed to return once the other man had woken up, to work through whatever issues came out the ordeal, to be there as and when needed. But not tonight, not when all he could think of was exactly how much pain he wanted to inflict on the them men responsible for this.   
  
++++   
  
He didn't go back to the hospital the next day, however, or the day after, or even the one after that. He tells himself its because there are loose ends to tie up, to make sure they are safe. He knows its a lie even as he says it down the phone when Cobb calls him a third time, asking he where he was. But then he'd never been very good at handling his own feelings, especially when it came to a certain point man.   
  
As he watches, from a safe distance, the flames start to catch the warehouse, the final bits of evidence linking them, linking Arthur to what happened inside engulfed in the fire, he knew he was running out of excuses.   
  
Cobb had obviously thought so too, the man was waiting for him in his room when he got back to the hotel, eyeing the many empty bottles strewn around the place with distaste. He looked tired, drawn, as if the past few days had aged him twenty years. Eames hadn't looked in the mirror recently, but he suspected his own face bore a similar testament to recent events.   
  
“How is he?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.  
  
Cobb sighes, “In and out mostly, feverish, still working off the last of the hallucinogens they pumped him full of,” Eames nodded, he knew this already, he phoned the hospital regularly to check, “asking after you.”  
  
Eames didn't know that, he flinched slightly then covered it up with a barely suppressed snort of disbelief.  
  
“He needs you, even if he'll never admit it.” The words are low but with an intensity that carried then across the room.  
  
This time Eames does nothing to suppress the laugh that wells up, a strained bitter sound, “Oh, I imagine I'm the last person he wants to see, after...” he trails off realising what he was about the say.  
  
“After what Eames?” and Cobb is up now, in his face and the forger had to look away, going over to the half-emptied bottled of vodka and pouring himself a large measure. The silence was heavy between them.  
  
“You know, I never took you for a fair-weather lover. Guess I was wrong about you.” Eames looks up at that into Cobbs glare and feels a surge of anger, because the other man has no right at all to be questioning him on this.  
  
“And I never took you for a man to stick his nose into things that don't concern him.” he growled back.   
  
“This is my best friend we're talking about, the man I consider to be a brother, of course this concerns me!” he shouted back before giving a disgusted sigh, “I always thought you were good for each other . He was happy with you, happier than I've ever seen him, you drew him out of himself, made him feel and I guess I imagined you loved him back. Seems I was wrong.” he turned to leave, disappointment radiating from his ever move.  
  
The words, the implication took all the fight out of him and Eames felt himself slide down the wall he'd been leaning against, as if he legs couldn't stand to hold him anymore. “Don't...I... fuck” he stammered out, words for once failing him.   
  
He could feel the pinprick of tears at the corners of eyes and he closed his eyes, his hand rubbing across his face in an attempt to clear them. When he opened them up Cobb was crouched in front of him, a concerned expression no doubt on his face but Eames didn't dare look him in the eye, instead focusing his gaze on the hotel wall behind him. “I just... I don't know how to fix this, I don't know how I can possibly make this better for him.” It was hard putting words to the sense of helplessness or impotence he felt. It was an unusual feeling for him and it scared him, not being able to _do_ anything to change things.  
  
Cobb gave him a small, sad smile, “In my experience, Arthur is pretty good at fixing himself. You just need to be there, to remind him its worth the effort.”  
  
Eames nodded slowly at that turning the words over in his mind. As he did soft buzz permeated the room, and it took him a moment to realise it was Cobbs phone. The other man moved away from where he was crouched answered it quickly, and the forger woulc barely hear the soft conversation, only catching the final “we'll be right there” before he hung up.   
  
He turned back to look down at the forger where he was sitting, still slumped against the wall.  
  
“That was Ariadne, he's awake and lucid this time.” he started moving towards the door, looking back as Eames continued to stare at him as if in a daze. “You coming?” he asked and the forger could only nod in reply and pull himself up. Because after all, this was Arthur, and really what else could he do.


	6. Los Angeles: 6th October, 9:43am

Arthur – Los Angeles: 6th October, 9:43am  
  
 _'Can I get you anything pet?'._  
  
The question echoed in Arthur's mind, even as he sat staring blankly out over the garden of Cobb's house in LA. It had been barely a week since they'd flown here from Bangkok, all of them unwilling to spend too long in the city where _it_ had happened, more unwilling to use up more of Saito's goodwill spending longer than necessary at the hospital he was providing.   
  
No, that wasn't true, _he_ was unwilling to spend longer there. But then he'd always uncomfortable with the level of involvement from the businessman who, the Fischer job aside, was still just another client. A well-respected, regular, loyal client, but still someone with whom maintaining a strictly professional relationship remained paramount.  
  
So here he was, sitting in the Cobb family home, his own apartment barred to him thanks to the unfortunate combination of a broken foot, considerable flights of stairs and an out of order elevator, trying to make his way through Les Miserables, in French of course, to stave off boredom whilst Cobb and Eames clucked around him like mother hens.   
  
_'Can I get you anything pet?'_  
  
He could handle that, mostly. In some ways it was sweet, in more ways it was thoroughly, utterly exasperating because Arthur was not an invalid, and could get things for himself than you very much, crutches and all.   
  
He was nonetheless used to a certain level of mother henning, he'd been subjected to it enough from Cobb whenever he had been injured during their partnership, some misplaced fatherly feelings no doubt given that he was unable to get home to his own children and comfort their own scrapes and bruises. He'd learned after a while to treat the whole thing with a level of resigned acceptance.  
  
No, the worse wasn't the attention which was the problem, but the way Eames seemed to treat him as if he was made of fragile glass, as if he'd break from one wrong word or one misplaced gesture. It was almost unbearable, the way he seemed to constantly hover, ready to respond to his any minor need, crowding his space, suffocating him, whilst at the same time distinctly, definitely Not Touching Him.   
  
_'Can I get you anything pet?'_  
  
Despite what others, or a certain British forger in any case, might think, Arthur was reasonably self-aware. He would be willing to admit, albeit through somewhat gritted teeth, that he currently had something of a reaction to unexpected physical contact. It was, he would like to think, a perfectly normal reaction after being tortured for close to three weeks straight and no doubt something which would recede with time.   
  
Of course, Eames had never previously been respectful of his boundaries around touching, even in the early days before they had started sleeping together, when the walls of Arthur's personal space had spikes and fences and large Keep Out signs. The Brit had just cheerfully disregarded them, pushing his way through and trampling all over Arthur's carefully laid defences. An arm over the shoulder here, a slap on the back there, small things that had gradually wormed their way into his heart. He wasn't doing that this time, which led to the sneaking, dreadful suspicion that he _knew_.   
  
Really, the argument had been building all week.   
  
“Can I get you anything pet?” The question had almost become a ritual, asked whenever he was alone for more than five minutes at a time, without a hot drink or a snack to occupy his hands. Arthur was getting sick of it.  
  
“No Eames, I do not want anything.” he snapped out, “if I did, I would get it myself, since I am still capable of moving.” He half expected, hoped, for a caustic retort from the other man, their usual banter distinctly lacking in the last few days. When it didn't come he assumed the other man had given up and went back to the world of Victor Hugo, wrapping himself up in love, revolution and death on the streets of Paris.  
  
Which was probably why he didn't hear the other man approach until he was almost behind him, which was why, despite Arthur's promise to himself that he was over it, that he was back in control, he reacted how did as soon as he was aware of that the other man was there. His body twisting around, moving instinctively to defend itself, and resulting in each of them staring at each other, breathing heavily, from across the veranda, an upturned table in between them and a pool of coffee spreading out from a broken mug, staining the wooden slats black.   
  
Eames rubbed his cheek gingerly where Arthur's first had struck him, “Really pet, is that how you treat all the ...” the mocking response was almost instinctive and Eames bit it off as soon as he realised what he was saying.   
  
It was that, more than anything, that set Arthur off, that and the oh so guilty look on the other man's face, that confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he _knew_. “Say it,” he demanded, “Go on, say it!” He wanted nothing more than to walk over there, to grab Eames and shake some sense into him but he could barely stay on his feet as it was, using the railing around the veranda for support, his broken foot throbbing in protest at the abuse.   
  
“Arthur,” the voice was pained and did absolutely nothing to calm Arthur down. If anything it made him want to throw something at him.  
  
“God, can you say anything other than my name and 'Can I get you anything pet?'” his voice was a mocking parody of Eames' British accent.  
  
Arthur could see anger starting to creep into the other man's expression and he was glad, “Like what love, what would you like me to say?” the tone was harsh, frustration evident.  
  
“Something, anything. I'm not made of glass, I won't shatter. Fuck Eames, it happened ok, it's over, I'm over it. In fact the only person I can see who's not over it is you!” He was almost shouting now, he was loosing control but he didn't care.  
  
“Oh yes love, I can see you're over it,” Eames was stalking forward as he spoke, anger clear in every movement, crowding up Arthur up against the railings, “that's why your half way across the room any time someone happens to touch you unexpectedly. Now I don't mind it a bit rough on occasion darling, but what if that had been Cobb, or Ariadne, or _Phillipa_.”   
  
Arthur flinched at that, guilt still coursing through him over than particular incident. Eames was in his space now, hands either side of him on the railings, face dark with anger, and the point man felt like he couldn't breath, his body trembling despite his best efforts to the contrary. Taking altogether too much effort, he pulled himself up straighter, bringing himself under control and forcing out through gritted teeth, “Get. Out.”  
  
When the other man didn't move, he repeated himself, “Get out Eames. Just leave. Now!” The other man looked like he wanted to argue, but then decided against it.   
  
“Fine love, if that's what you want!” He stalked out, the door slamming behind him as he did so, and Arthur hated that he flinched at the sound, instinctively reaching towards a die that wasn't there.  
  
He wasn't certain how long he stood there, breathing heavily, trying to get his rolling emotions under control. Because Eames _knew_ , he knew and could barely stand to touch him. Somehow that hurt more than any of his physical injuries, any of what happened to him. Eventually he had to move, the pain in his foot becoming overwhelming, his still battered body trembling just from the effort of staying standing.   
  
This was getting him nowhere. He needed to get his head straight, to get some sort of resolution, regain some form of control and he knew just how to do it. With a renewed sense of purpose, he pulled himself up on his crutches and made his way up to his room. Once there he pulled out his laptop, and started to get to work. He had an Irishman to find.   
  
++++  
  
Eames, it seemed, had taken him at his word. He'd left.   
  
Despite the fact Arthur was expecting it, had been expecting it since he woke up in the hospital to the forgers absence, expecting it since the man had turned up later smelling of alcohol and smoke and resolutely Not Touching Him, it still hurt.  
  
Arthur dealt with the pain the same way he dealt with everything, throwing himself into his work and ignoring it. He sets up his office in Eames' room, the room they usually shared whenever they visited the Cobb house, the room Eames had resolutely insisted they _didn't_ share whilst he was recovering.   
  
He tells himself its because it's the only space in the house not otherwise occupied, the only space where he could get peace and quiet to work. He distinctly tells himself its _not_ because the room smells of Eames and definitely not because of the paisley shirts and tweed jackets left there indicating that the other man, might, just might, be planning to return.   
  
There was something satisfying about the research, of doing something he can control. He starts wearing suits again, trouser leg rolled up in deference to the cast on his foot even though his 'office' is just down the hall. He plans the job methodically, clinically and after a while he even starts being able to look at the face of the Irishman, Carnhain he learns the name is, without remembering.  
  
Cobb is worried about him, says as much at breakfast one morning, but Arthur brushes him off, because he's fine now, he's back in control, and if he still flinches a little when touched unexpectedly that's just normal given the circumstances.   
  
He distinctly does not tell Cobb what he is doing. Because the other man would try to talk him out of it. He'd give him arguments about morality, legality and ethics, about how this is not their way, about how he needs to move on, to put this behind him. Cobb was going at saying things he never did himself.   
  
It's a week later when Eames returns.   
  
He comes breezing into the room, all smiles and grins, but Arthur notes, making sure to make enough noise on his approach that Arthur knew he was coming, could compose himself before he burst in. He almost seemed like he was going to lean forward and kiss him and the point man tensed in anticipation, but then the other man changed tack going instead to slump down on the bed.   
  
“Cobb told me you'd been hiding yourself up here. Really darling, I appreciate you missed me but did you have to cover my bed with so many files.”   
  
“I didn't know if you were coming back, so I decided to put the space to good use.” He kept his voice neutral, factual, like it didn't mean anything. He couldn't help but see a stab of satisfaction however at the brief grimace of pain on the other man's face before it was gone, covered up by sardonic smile.  
  
“Oh, I'm like a bad penny I am, I always turn up.”  
  
“Where did you go?” He couldn't help a hint of accusation slip into his voice at that.   
  
“Las Vegas and really driving in this country is oh so very boring, your roads are far too straight”  
  
Las Vegas, figured, after all where else would the other man go to be able to gamble and drink in peace. To find someone to relieve his tension with, someone with a perfect body, not damaged or scarred. He stamped down on the feelings as he drily responded, “Oh, I hadn't realised there was still a casino there you hadn't been banned from.”   
  
Something of his thoughts must have snuck through his mask however, because Eames sat bolt upright, his expression serious. “Wasn't there for the casinos, love,” and he's moving now, kneeling down in front of where the point man was sitting at his desk. Arthur noticed he had a small black velvet box in his hands and he had the brief, ridiculous thought that the other man may be going to propose.   
  
“It was the only place I could get this.” Eames opened the box as he spoke so Arthur could see inside. His heart stopped briefly when he saw what the other man was holding out to him and he couldn't help a small smile of wonder twitch at the corner's of his mouth because sitting there, colours bright against the black velvet, was a small red die. He went to pick it up, rolling it against the table, once, twice, three times. It came up four every time. It wasn't his old totem of course, the weight, the balance was slightly different, but the number, the one only he and Eames knew, the number was the same and it was a start.  
  
“You had to go all the way to Vegas for this?” he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, feeling the urge to smile, really smile, for the first time in weeks.   
  
“Had to get it from the same place now didn't I? Surprised it was even still there.” Of course Eames would remember. It had been a gift, after their first job together, after Arthur had rebuffed the other man's advances to take a chance and live a little with a sharp, 'I never gamble unless I already know the outcome.'   
  
Arthur did the only thing he could think of, he leaned forward and kissed him, wrapping his arms around the forgers broad chest. The move obviously caught Eames off-guard, taking him a few seconds to respond, before he returned the kiss with a gentle fervour, his own arms returning the embrace, touching him for the first time in weeks. Once they came up for air, Arthur moved down onto the floor besides him, not breaking their embrace, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder, his fingers tracing the lines to tattoos peaking out from under the other man's, horrifically orange, shirt.  
  
Eventually he broke the silence, answering the question he knew was forming on the other man's lips. “They never managed to get the tattoos right, they were always changing. It's how I knew I was in a dream.” He kept his voice neutral as if he was discussing the weather not the nightmares which had come so close to breaking him.  
  
He felt more than heard the other man's breath catch in his throat, somewhere between a choke and a sob, but when he answered his voice was playful and only through years of familiarity could Arthur detect the thick emotion behind it, “As romantic as the thought of being your totem is, I do think the dice may be a tad more practical. I doubt Cobb would appreciate you undressing me in the warehouse.”Arthur couldn't help but snort in amusement at that one.  
  
They sat like that in silence for what seemed like an age, taking comfort in each others closeness. It was nice, gentle and entirely, frustratingly non-sexual. Arthur hated the treacherous part of himself which was somehow relieved at that.  
  
“So this is what you've been up to?” Eames voice broke the silence and Arthur froze when he saw what he's holding. It was his file on Carnhain, his past, his habits, his known locations, his strengths and weaknesses, everything he could find.   
  
Arthur pulled back from the other man, straightening up and nodded, “I need this Eames, I need it to be over.” He kept his voice calm but firm, clearly indicating that he was willing to fight for this, no matter what the other said or how he tried to dissuade him.   
  
He should have known Eames better, should have guess he wouldn't shy away from the idea like Cobb, wouldn't bring up arguments of morals or ethics. Should have expected the other man to do exactly what he did, which was to nod and say conversationally, “I hate to say it love, given how you're usually so good with the details, but you seem to be forgetting that this is going to be a two-man job.”  
  
And maybe Arthur is not over it, maybe he's not fine. But he knows in that moment that he will be.   
  
++++   
  
Eames – Brussels: 5th November, 10.51pm  
  
They're sitting in one of the top floor rooms of the Merridian in Brussels, in the dark, waiting. The room is pleasantly large, well laid out with comfortable seats and an impressive view of the heart of the city. Which is good because they have been sitting here for three hours already. In the near distance Eames can see the nightly _Son et Lumière_ playing out over the gothic architecture of the Grand-Place, buildings illuminated in ghostly colours. Further away he can see fireworks going off, a testament to the Anglo expat community in the city he supposed.   
  
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” the childhood rhyme slips almost involuntarily from his lips, little more than a whisper but carrying in otherwise silent room.  
  
“What?” Arthurs voice, sharp but low from the other side of the room.   
  
“Guy Fawkes night, love.” he explained, before adding “One of these days I'm going to have take you to a proper bonfire night celebration, we can burn our very own Guy.”   
  
He could hear the amusement in the other man's voice as he responded, “Only the British would celebrate a man failing to blow up the government.”   
  
“The important thing is he tried, darling.” An amused snort from the point man before he feel silent again. Eames could hear the soft click of metal on metal and he didn't need to see the other man to know that he was checking the gun for what must have been the fifth time that evening. To anyone else the gesture may have seemed merely precautionary, but Eames knew it to be a sign of anxiety, the only one the point man would allow himself.   
  
Half an hour later their patience was finally rewarded as they hear a key card in the lock and the door swings open. Both men tense, muscles coiled in anticipation, ready for action. Carnhain must have been confident in his new alias, in his ability to remain hidden, because he walked into the room with barely a look around, flipping the light switch on with a deft movement, his other hand occupied by a small briefcase. He looked the same as he had when they'd run across him in Singapore, and somehow Eames felt that something of what he'd done should show on his features.   
  
He heard Arthur take a deep breath at the sight of the man and Eames glanced over, worried for a moment that the other man wouldn't be able to handle being faced with his tormentor. He should have known better, Arthur's face was impassive, cold and hard and there wasn't even the hint of a tremble in the hand holding the gun unerringly aimed at the Irishman's chest.   
  
Carnhain obviously heard the noise too, looking up towards the sound, his hand almost instinctively going towards what was no doubt a gun secreted underneath the two-piece suit. From behind him, Eames cocked his gun, a pointless gesture with a semi-automatic but the sound conveyed the threat more effectively than anything else. He didn't say anything though, because this was Arthur's revenge not his, he was just here to make sure it went smoothly.  
  
“Remember me. _Laddie_ ” and Eames almost flinched at the venom in Arthur's voice as he spat the words out.   
  
Carnhain did flinch and from his vantage point Eames could see a faint trembling indicating that the man was more than aware of what was going to happen next. But the Irish lilt was steady as he spoke, “Should have killed you when I had the chance... _laddie_.”   
  
Arthur shot him almost before the words were out of his mouth, two in the chest, one in the head. Clean, precise and far too quick a death for Eames' liking but even in revenge the point man was nothing if not professional.   
  
The point man was calm and so in control as they disposed of the guns and the gloves, removing any evidence to link them to the crime and it was all Eames could do to keep his hands off him, because competent Arthur was nothing if not sex appeal on legs and it had been too long since he'd seen his lover like this.  
  
But once it was done the point man let out a breath that neither of them realised he'd been holding, the tension ebbing from his frame leaving behind a barely perceptible trembling and Eames knew he'd made the right decision not to. The near flinch and the way Arthur refused to look him in the eye as the forger gathered him in his embrace merely served to reinforce what he already knew, that his lover wasn't ready.   
  
++++  
  
New York: 31st December, 10:54pm  
  
They tracked down 'Charlie' in New York, Charles Kuang to be precise and Eames knew him by reputation because the world of dreamers, and forgers especially, was too small not to. He was celebrating New Years Eve in a plush bar within staggering distance of Times Square.   
  
They'd missed Christmas, and Eames had had to promise profusely to make it up to his mother for that, hoping to catch him in Toronto but he'd skipped town just after they'd arrived and it had taken them near a week of frantic searching to pick up the trail again.  
  
He waited until the curvaceous blonde date the other man was entertaining had slipped away to powder her nose and the buxom waitress had deposited further drinks, making little attempt as she did to avoid the other forgers wandering hands.   
  
Eames slipped into the recently vacated chair opposite him as soon as the coast was clear, a predatory grin plastered on his face.   
  
“Evening, Charlie.” he took great satisfaction at the look of panic that crossed the other man's face as he looked up in the face of the man he'd forged in so many dreams.   
  
“Who... what...” he started to get up, words, questions, spilling incoherently from his mouth as he did so.   
  
He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder pushing him forcefully back down, a gun subtly digging into his back offering further encouragement towards co-operation. Charlie went even paler, if that was possible, when he saw the face of the point man starring down at him impassively.   
  
“Do finish your drink, it would be a shame to waste it after all, then the three of us are going to take a little walk,” Eames continued to smile at him as he spoke, despite wanting nothing more than to reach across the table and rip the man apart with his bare hands.   
  
Charlie swallowed, hard, then nodded in mute acquiescence, finishing the drink with a trembling hand.   
  
They made their way out of the bar with little fuss, the two of them flanking the smaller asian man, half carrying him and waving away concerned looks with an explanation of too many drinks too early in the evening. Of course the sedative that the forger had slipped into his drink nod doubt helped considerably with this pretence.   
  
They did the deed in an disused industrial estate, the scenery horrifically reminiscent of the warehouse that Arthur had been kept in. Again, Eames stood back and allowed Arthur to carry it out, knowing that this needed to be done by the point man's own hand. And once the body had fallen to the ground, mouth open in a silent plea for mercy, he helped his lover put him in the boot of the stolen car, doused it with petrol and set it alight. For all the world looking like a gang-land hit.   
  
It was nearing midnight when they made it back to Times Square and they waited there, in amongst the crowds and the revellers for the count-down. Arthur looked amazing in a sharp three-piece suit, dark woollen coat keeping out the chill in the air, all evidence of what had happened barely three months ago long gone, healed as if it was never there. Nothing left but the scars occasionally glimpsed underneath the silk pyjamas Arthur had now taken to wearing in bed. More than just that though he looked almost happy, his eyes with arousal and adrenaline from what they had just done and it was all Eames could do not to jump him there and then, to respect the boundaries that both public decency and Arthur's sense of personal space demanded.   
  
So when at midnight the other man grabbed him, pulling him into a fierce kiss, he almost came undone. “A little public isn't this darling” he gasped out once he was able to breath again.  
  
“It's New Years Eve, it's allowed” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, as if it was obvious, before kissing him again.  
  
It was on the tip of Eames tongue to suggest they find a room or even to suggest finding out what else was aloud in public on New Years Eve but the subtle tension in the other man stopped him, the trembling which in no way could he mistake for anticipation and he pulled away regretfully, saying instead, “Come on love, we've got a plane to catch.”   
  
He turned away quickly, not trusting his self-control otherwise, and so missed the brief look of hurt that passed the younger man's face before the implacable mask slipped back into place.   
  
++++  
  
Manchester: 21st January, 2:23pm  
  
They got back to England soon after, ensconcing themselves firmly in Eames flat up in the Manchester over-looking the canal. The weather was inevitably dreary, a cold damp that seeped into the bones and always left him shivering no matter how many layers he wrapped himself in. It was a times like this that he had trouble, beyond some sort of nostalgic longing for the country of his birth, to figure out why he lived here are all.   
  
It was also at times like these, that despite his usual appreciation for the crowds, the vibrancy of city, that he felt it would really be nice if all these people could kindly fuck off, as he tried desperately to do his shopping in weekly farmer's market, weaving his way in between the hordes of people out for the January sales.  
  
His mood lifted somewhat however once he got back home, arms laden with groceries, to find Arthur curled up on the sofa, Eames' cat, recently rescued from the next door neighbour on his lap. He was looking positively informal for Arthur, barefoot, tie removed, top two buttons of his shirt undone and it took all of his willpower to draw his eyes away.  
  
“Hey” he said in way of greeting.  
  
“Hey yourself” there was a strange expression on the other man's face, a small tense smile at his lips and Eames tried to figure out what it could mean as he moved into the kitchen to start putting things away.   
  
Arthur with perfect timing, or possibly he'd planned it that way, Eames wouldn't have put it past him, spoke up when Eames had his hands most full. “The results of the second blood test came through.” Eames whirled around at that almost dropping the bottle of Cote du Rhone he knew the point man liked so much.   
  
He hadn't even realised that Arthur had gone for another blood test. Didn't know that Arthur knew he knew he'd had the first one, or why. The subject had never been broached, the perpetual elephant in the room of their relationship.  
  
The other man continued before he had a chance to verbalise the obvious question, “I'm clean.”  
  
“That's...” Eames didn't have a chance to finish the sentence as Arthur continued.  
  
“So now you don't have any more excuses.” The point man appeared to be approaching the conversation, such as it was, with the same attitude as he approached all difficult and potentially painful problems, with calm determination.   
  
Eames felt as if he had somehow walked into the conversation half way through missing the all important beginning which told him what the fuck they were talking about. He felt for his totem just to reassure himself that he was actually awake, before asking, “Any excuses for what love?”  
  
“For not sleeping with me,” and now Eames was thoroughly bemused.  
  
“And why, exactly pet, would I want to avoid doing that?” he said slowly, he was starting to get an inkling that somehow, somewhere along the line he had managed to get the very wrong end of a very important stick..  
  
Arthur was advancing on him now frustration visible in every line of his body, “Because you're not! Every time we come close to having sex, You.” he was poking the forger in the chest now, “Pull. Away. If you can't stand to fuck me anymore, at least have the decency to tell me so.”  
  
The words left the forger speechless and he mentally reviewed their interactions over the past few weeks. 'Oh. _Oh_!'   
  
He couldn't help it, he started to laugh, because for someone who made his living being able to read people, he had somehow managed to get things so completely, so utterly wrong.   
  
Arthur was glaring at him, anger evident and Eames pulled himself together before the other man inflicted permanent, and well-deserved damage. “I'm sorry love, really I am. It's just you have no idea how difficult it has been for me to keep my hands off you these past few months. _I_ didn't want to push you into something _you_ didn't want.”  
  
The point man just stared at for what seemed for an age whilst he processed the words, anger battled with amusement at the absurdity of the situation on the other man's face. Finally, 'fortunately' Eames though since he liked being in one piece, amusement won out and an exasperated smile was twitching the corners of his mouth, “You.” he declared, “are an idiot!”  
  
Eames let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and moved forward to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. The tension was still there, the slight jump when they first touched and he pulled back slightly, concerned despite the other man's earlier words.   
  
This time Arthur didn't let him, “Did I ask you to stop?”   
  
“Tell me darling, since I'm obviously being a little slow here, what exactly do you want me to do?” He questioned, needing to hear to words, the assurance from the other man's lips.  
  
Arthur gave him the playful smile he only ever used in their most intimate moments and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me, Mr Eames.”  
  
 _That_ was a request Eames was only too happy to comply with. He did pull back briefly however once they'd gotten to the bedroom, after Arthur had tensed up as he started to undo the buttons on the point man's very expensive shirt. Because despite the other man's words, despite the best will in the world, Eames knew that saying you were willing to do something and actually doing it could be very different things.  
  
He should have learnt by now not to underestimate the willpower the other man possessed.“I am not going to let what they did to me rule my life,” Arthur had told him firmly when he noticed the the hesitation, pulling him insistently back down onto the bed.  
  
Later, as Arthur lay drowsily in his arms, a look of peace and contentment on his face as Eames reverently traced the new scars on his body with his fingers, the forger knew. He knew that even if Arthur wouldn't quite meet his eyes when he first took off his shirt, until the forger had him squirming and gasping as he mapped to scars with his tongue; even if he hesitated slightly before taking Eames in his mouth, a flash of memory across his face before he lost himself in the pleasure of the act and even if he took slightly longer to relax as he took him in, until Eames had hit that sweet spot that made him cry and beg with desire, that was all okay.   
  
Because despite everything, Arthur was going to be alright. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, and Eames was going to be with him every step of the way.   
  
**Epilogue**  
  
 **London: 21st February, 10:15am**  
  
They're back in the same old run-down café and Eames couldn't help but smile at Arthur's slightly disgusted look at the run-down and grimy décor. The place was mostly empty, the morning commuters having been and gone, the lunchtime rush had yet to start.  
  
Despite this she was sitting outside, the combination of the patio heater and the unseasonably warm weather meaning that she had forgone the heavy coat, revealing instead a smart suit. Off-the-rack of course, a shame because shop bought never quite brought out the best in her figure. He supposed that was the pains of living on a government salary, he didn't understand how she could stand it really.  
  
“You missed Christmas, Mother was terribly disappointed,” she said by way of a greeting, getting up out of her chair to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.   
  
“She'll get over it. Lovely to see you as always, Emms,” Eames said with as much sincerity as he could muster.   
  
Clearly not enough however, as she gave him a sardonic smile, “Liar.” She then turned towards the man at his side, looking ever so out of place in his impeccably tailored suits. “You must be Arthur.” It was a statement more than a question.  
  
“You must be Emily,” Arthur replied in the same tone and Eames often forgot that the point man had started off in her world. “I understand I owe you a thank you.”  
  
“Don't mention it.” She waved the thanks away, before continuing more drily, “Really don't. Ever.”  
  
The waiter came out to take their orders and they sat down in the uncomfortable rickety chairs, mugs of coffee steaming. Arthur pulled the ashtray towards their side of the table, whilst Eames fished out a smoke. Once it was lit, he rescued the sugar from where his sister seemed to be turning her coffee into syrup and pulled it over to the point man. As he did, he noticed that his sister was watching them intently with an amused grin.   
  
He scowled at the observation and in a manoeuvre reminiscent of their encounter all those months ago threw out the name, “Lee Sun Tsang.”   
  
As he hoped, the name caught her off guard and she gave him a puzzled look, “I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate on that one, James.”   
  
Eames felt Arthur stiffen slightly besides him and he realised this was probably the first time the other man had heard anyone else use his given name, an otherwise intimate gesture usually reserved for their most private moments. “The leak you were hoping we'd find,” he elaborated, satisfied at her slightly guilty look, “you do need to be more subtle with your manipulations, Emms, it really was painfully obvious.”  
  
She recovered quickly however, the guilt replaced with a dry smile, “Ah, so you did get something off Carnhain before you killed him.” She was fishing for information and they all knew it.  
  
“We have no idea what you're talking about,” Arthur interjected smoothly, “I heard he had an unfortunate run in with some old employers in Brussels. Russian mafia hit they're calling it.” His tone challenged her to contradict him and Eames sat back to admire the verbal sparring. Arthur was magnificent when he was like this, clam and composed, expression impassive with only a twitch of a smile that the forger imagined only he could see.  
  
“I'm sure, just the same as Charles Kuang unfortunately got in the middle of a turf war in New York.” she was enjoying herself, typical.  
  
“As you say.” Not even a twitch at that and Eames wondered briefly if this was the Arthur the spook he was getting to see, all suave and calm, fighting with words as much as bullets. It was highly appealing to watch.  
  
Emily gave him a dry grin, “I'm almost surprised that Mr Tsang didn't have an unfortunate run-in with the Yakuza too, given the role he had in all of this.” Eames perked up at that one, because he hadn't quite managed to worm out of Arthur exactly how the two events lined up.   
  
“We thought it best to let you clean up that mess, it was your payment data after all.” even as his sister grimaced at the accusation of ineptitude, the wheels were turning in Eames head and things were starting to fall into place.  
  
He turned accusingly to Arthur, “You knew didn't you.”  
  
“Of course I knew,” his tone suggesting that to imply otherwise was, frankly, insulting.  
  
“So which job was it, come on then love, when did you decided to involve us with working for them,” he gestured at his sister as his spoke, as if to encompass the whole British government in a single person  
  
Arthur gave a long suffering sigh, “The Quan Son job.” Anticipating Eames next question, he continued, “and I didn't tell you because I knew you'd be unreasonable about it.”   
  
Eames opened his mouth to protest that, given the circumstances, it was hardly being unreasonable to think that getting caught up with the government who was trying so hard to arrest him for treason was frankly downright dangerous when he heard a throat clearing from across the table.   
  
His sister was looking at them with a highly amused look, “If you two have quite finished with your bickering.” She slid a package across the table, it was wrapped in Christmas paper and Eames guiltily realised that he'd forgotten to get her a present. Still, he hadn't got her one in previous years either, she always forgave him for that. “Your present, James, since you didn't make it down and,” she continued, her voice lower, “a little something for the information. Don't say I never do anything for you.” Given the way it was wrapped, she'd clearly anticipated that they'd come through. Either that or she knew a lot more about their movements that he was comfortable with.  
  
She got up, holding out her hand to Arthur, “Mr Miller,” Arthur stiffened at that and Eames wondered briefly if he should have warned him about that one, “a pleasure to meet you.” She leaned slightly closer in, her voice low so that Eames had to struggle to make out the words, “Take care of him. I know he can be a git at times, but his heart's always in the right place.”  
  
“Dr Eames,” Arthur responded with a small nod and a quiet smile, demonstrating his own research skills.   
  
She made her way round further round to her sibling, and he stood up so that she wouldn't have to bend over. Well, that and he always liked to emphasis their height difference, it stopped her getting too many ideas. She frowned at him, then went up on tiptoes to give him a kiss. “Take care James, do make sure you invite me to the wedding won't you.”  
  
“You too Emily, and do give my love to Mother when next you see her.” With a final wave she made her way out the café.  
  
Eames chanced a look at his lover, wondering if he'd overheard the wedding comment and saw that the other man had a slightly bemused expression on his face. “So, that was your sister”  
  
“You should meet the rest of the family love, she's a barrel of laughs in comparison.” he said with a grin, slinging his arm around the other man's shoulders. He moved away, as expected, he wouldn't be Arthur if he didn't, a frown on his face, but Eames was glad that there had been no flinch at the contact, just regular Arthur annoyance.   
  
The point man looked over at him with a small smile, however, saying “Well I imagine I will have to, if there's going to be a wedding.” The statement was made lightly but Eames could hear the question in the other man's voice, could see the anxious tension in him as he waited for the answer.  
  
“Yes, I imagine you will love.” he answered in a similar tone, before continuing “Just please, don't let Mother anywhere near planning the bloody thing.” he threaded his hand through Arthur's as he spoke and was only half surprised when the other man left it there, one of those rare, genuine smiles on the point man's face.   
  
The End


End file.
